The Devil's Posse

  A SORE LOSER

  Anticipating the reaction he was sure to see, Lacey, still grinning, replied, “Remember that feller you had a little go-round with back at Fort Pierre, in O’Malley’s Saloon?” He got the reaction he’d expected. The big man’s eyes narrowed and he snorted angrily through his bruised and broken nose. “Yeah, you remember him,” Lacey went on. “Well, I just saw him and that feller he was with—I think he’s his brother—eatin’ dinner at Whitey’s place.”

  Jake almost came out of his chair. “Where? Is he still at Whitey’s?”

  “Nope,” Lacey answered. “He left Whitey’s and took that trail up beside the harness shop. I followed the two of ’em up the ridge to see which way they was headin’. Then I hightailed it back here. Figured you’d wanna know.”

  “That son of a bitch,” Jake growled as he got up and kicked the chair out of his way. He paused then when the thought occurred to him. “Why the hell didn’t you shoot the son of a bitch when you had the chance?”

  Lacey shrugged. “I thought about it—I sure did—but I figured that was a score you wanted to settle yourself.”

  “I don’t give a damn who shoots him,” Jake declared, still on the verge of exploding. “I just want him dead. Him and his brother, too.”

  SIGNET

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Charles G. West, 2015

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  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  ISBN 978-0-698-17642-3

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Version_1

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  For Ronda

  Chapter 1

  “Here you go, boys!” Oscar Bradley called out as he approached the group of men waiting at the corner of the corral, their saddles and other gear on the ground beside it. “It’s payday.” He picked a saddle to sit on and set the leather bag, in which he kept his notebook, on the ground in front of him. “Like I told you when you signed on back in Ogallala, this is gonna be my last drive, and I promised I’d pay you a bonus if we made it here in less than twenty-three days.” He paused to look around at the expectant faces. “Well, we made it in twenty-one, with the cattle in good shape. But the price for cattle is down, so I ain’t gonna give you that bonus.” He paused again to witness the looks of shock and disappointment, but unable to play the joke out any further, he cracked, “I’m just joshin’ ya. I got top dollar for the cattle, but you oughta see the look on your faces.” The silence that had descended upon the drovers immediately erupted into a burst of cackling relief. “Like I said, you can each pick one horse outta this bunch in the corral, too. Now, who’s first?”

  “I reckon I am,” Smoky Lewis volunteered, and stepped forward. The cook on the drive, Smoky owned his chuck wagon and the team of horses that pulled it. He had a separate arrangement with Oscar, since he had come along as an independent contractor to do the cooking. “You might not really be japin’, so I’ll get my money before you run out.”

  His remark, made in jest, brought a few chuckles from the other men. Oscar Bradley was a fair man. Each of his drovers knew that he would lose money on the sale of the cattle before he would go back on his word to them. Their only regret was the fact that this was Oscar’s last drive.

  One by one, the men stepped up to receive their pay. Oscar marked each man’s name off in his notebook with his pencil and shook the man’s hand. He paused briefly when the Cross brothers stepped up. Billy, the younger, was first. He and his brother, Logan, had been working for Oscar since they were teenage boys, and they had proven to be his most dependable drovers.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have something else for you fellers, but like I told you, I’m headin’ back to Omaha to sit in a rockin’ chair on my daughter’s front porch. I know I’d sure as hell give you a good recommendation, if anybody was to ask me.”

  “Thanks, Oscar,” Logan replied.

  “What are you plannin’ to do, go back to Ogallala with the rest of the boys?” Oscar asked.

  “I reckon so,” Logan said. “We ain’t talked about doin’ anything else.”

  “Except gettin’ a drink of whiskey first thing,” Billy piped up. “That’s about as long as I wanna stay around this place.”

  He and Logan had already decided that there was no future for them in Fort Pierre. It seemed the only sensible thing for them to do was to return to Ogallala with the others in hopes of signing on with another cattleman. Herding cattle was all they knew.

  “Hang around till I get everybody paid,” Oscar said. “There’s a little somethin’ I’d like to run by you.”

  Billy glanced at his brother, and Logan responded with a shrug. “Sure thing, Oscar,” Logan said. “I’m gonna go throw my saddle on that flea-bitten gray standin’ over by the fence before somebody else has the same idea.” The gray had been his favorite and the one that he had most often ridden. It was the only one he had named, calling it Pepper. Having already set his sights on a buckskin, Billy followed him.

  After every man had selected a horse and saddled it, Smoky Lewis motioned to Logan and said, “We’re goin’ over to the Cattleman’s Saloon. You and Billy comin’?”

  “You go ahead,” Logan said. “We’ll be along.”

  When the others had gone, Oscar put his notebook away and picked up his leather bag. “I was talkin’ to a feller at the cattle sale, and he said he was lookin’ to hire a couple of men to help him drive some horses over to Sturgis in the Black Hills. He’s got two men who work for him, but he could use a couple more, since he wound up buyin’ more than he planned.” Oscar smiled and winked. “I sold him the rest of the horses here in the corral at such a good price he couldn’t pass it up.” He paused for their reaction before continuing. “Anyway, I told him I knew two good men who might be interested. Whaddaya think? You wanna drive some horses
over to the Black Hills? There’s a helluva lot goin’ on up that way ever since the government opened the hills up for prospectors. This feller said there’s a heap of travel on the roads between here and Sturgis—mule trains, bull trains, wagons, and everything else that rolls or trots. Might be somethin’ else over that way for you boys.”

  As usual, Billy looked at his older brother for his reaction. “How long a drive would it be?” Logan asked.

  “He said it’s about a hundred and fifty miles from here,” Oscar said. “It’d take a week or more, I expect. I told him I’d see if you were interested.”

  Again, looking to Logan for his opinion, Billy shrugged and joked, “I don’t recollect any appointments we’ve got. Whadda you think, Logan?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt to talk to the man,” Logan replied. “Where do we find him?”

  “He said he’ll be in O’Malley’s place in about an hour from now. It’s that little saloon down the street from the hotel. His name’s Matt Morrison—seems like a reasonable feller.”

  “Okay, we’ll go talk to him,” Logan said. “That all right with you?” he asked Billy. When his brother shrugged indifferently, he turned back to Bradley. “Much obliged, Oscar. We appreciate it.” They shook hands again, and then he and Billy climbed into their saddles.

  Oscar stood there and watched them as they rode off toward the town of Fort Pierre. I wish I was as young as those two, he thought. I’d ride to the Black Hills with them.

  * * *

  Fort Pierre was settled on the west bank of the Missouri River, on a level plain that provided easy access to the river. It was a pleasant setting for a town, but it held no attraction for the Cross brothers. They rode past the Cattleman’s Saloon, even though there was plenty of time to have a drink or two with the rest of Oscar’s crew before Mr. Morrison was supposed to be at O’Malley’s. They both agreed that it might cause some resentment if the others found out that Oscar had favored them with his recommendation.

  There were a few horses tied up in front of O’Malley’s, though not as many as those at the larger saloon’s hitching rail. Dismounting, they pulled their rifles from the saddle slings and walked in the door. They paused to let their eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, a sharp contrast to the bright summer sunshine outside. After a moment, they started toward a table against the opposite wall, thinking it a good place to watch the door and spot Morrison when he walked in.

  They had taken no more than a few steps when they were stopped by the bartender. “Howdy, gents,” he greeted them cordially. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave those rifles on that table by the door.” When both men balked for a second, he continued. “I reckon you fellers ain’t ever been in here before. We ask every customer to do the same.” He smiled then to show he meant nothing personal.

  Logan looked back toward the door. Like his brother, he hadn’t noticed the table with half a dozen pistols on it. “Sure,” he said, “seems like a good idea.” He and Billy went back and propped their rifles against the table and laid their pistols on top. Then they proceeded toward the table they had selected.

  “What’s your poison?” Roy, the bartender, asked as they passed by the bar.

  “Whiskey,” Billy answered. “Just whatever you got—rye, if I’ve got a choice.” Neither he nor Logan was a heavy drinker, so it really didn’t matter.

  “I’ve got rye,” Roy said. “And I’ve also got some smooth Kentucky bourbon, if you’d rather have it.”

  “Which is the cheapest?” Logan asked.

  “Rye,” Roy said.

  “Then we’ll have that, and two glasses of beer to chase it,” Logan said, and stopped to wait for it while Billy continued to the table.

  “Well, here’s to another cattle drive behind us,” Logan said after they were seated. He raised his shot glass in a toast. Billy raised his glass to meet it, and they tossed the fiery whiskey down.

  “Whew!” Billy coughed. “That stuff burns all the way down.”

  Logan laughed. “It makes a difference when it’s been a long time between drinks.”

  Working slowly on the beer, they looked around them at the sparse crowd in the saloon. Only three other tables were occupied. And of the three, only one had more than two men quietly enjoying an afternoon drink of whiskey. That table, back in a corner of the room, was occupied by three men and a woman. The two brothers had sat there for only a few minutes before the woman got up to take an empty bottle to the bar to exchange for a full one.

  On her way past them, she openly eyed the two strangers, and on her way back, she favored Billy with a smile. It didn’t surprise Logan. His younger brother had been blessed with the good looks of his mother, while Logan seemed to have inherited the brawn and strength of his father. Though, at times, he wasn’t sure if Billy’s handsome features might better be called a curse. The thought had no sooner occurred to him than he began to hear a raising of the voices at the corner table.

  He turned to Billy and asked, “You smiled back at her, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I mighta,” Billy answered. “Why?”

  Logan gave his younger brother a tired sigh. “That’s why,” he said when the conversation at the corner table suddenly escalated into a loud argument.

  “You don’t own me!” the woman exclaimed indignantly, and rose to her feet.

  “Set your ass back down!” one of the men demanded. “Countin’ all the whiskey you drank, I sure as hell made a down payment on you.” His remark brought a laugh from his two companions, who seemed to be enjoying the spat between the two.

  “I’ll set my ass where I damn well please,” the woman replied. A large-framed, long-legged woman, with many miles etched into her not unpleasant face, she seemed capable of handling her rough company. “I’ve wasted enough time on you and your friends. You coulda got drunk without me, if that’s all you were interested in.”

  “Set down!” the man demanded again, and grabbed her wrist.

  Logan glanced at the bartender. Seeing that he was now aware of the potential trouble brewing at the corner table, Logan was satisfied that the bartender would handle the situation before it became violent. As he had figured, Roy walked back to the table where the woman was still standing defiantly before the three men.

  “Hey, fellers,” he began, “ain’t no need to get your backs up. Gracie didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Right, Gracie?” Gracie didn’t answer. She just continued to glare at the belligerent bully holding her wrist. Since Gracie was obviously not inclined to apologize, Roy attempted to appease the quarrelsome brute. “Let her go and we’ll have the next round on the house. Whaddaya say?”

  “I ain’t takin’ no sass from a broken-down old whore,” the bully replied. He looked back at the woman and said, “I told you to set down.” To enforce the order, he attempted to pull her down on the chair, but she fought against his efforts. The ensuing struggle knocked the chair over and landed Gracie on the floor, her wrist still captured in the brute’s hand.

  “Mister,” Roy said. “I’m gonna have to ask you and your friends to leave now. I think you’ve had enough.”

  Fully agitated at that point, the bully clamped down as tight as he could on the woman’s wrist while she strained to free herself. “I’ll leave when I’m ready to leave,” he roared, then threatened, “How’d you like it if I tore this whole damn place down?”

  “Wouldn’t like it,” Roy replied.

  To this point, the few other patrons of the saloon had watched in silence. Seeing that things had seemingly gotten out of hand, two of the men got up and made a hasty retreat out the door. “Damn,” Logan cursed softly when it became obvious that Roy’s efforts to defuse a situation already gone bad were not going to succeed, for Logan had no desire to get involved in the altercation. “You had to smile at her,” he said wearily aside to Billy.

  “Hell, I didn’t know,�
� Billy replied lamely.

  By now, Gracie was desperate to free herself from the brute’s clutches. When her struggles proved useless, she resorted to attacking his arm with her fingernails. “Yow!” her captor roared in pain, and struck her roughly with a backhand across her face.

  That was as much as the Cross brothers could tolerate. Logan was the first to move. “That’s far enough,” he stated emphatically as he rose to his feet. “Billy, go over there by the door and take care of those weapons.” He walked over to the corner table to confront the troublemakers. “All right, the man here asked you politely to get outta his saloon. Now I’m tellin’ you that it’s time for you to turn the lady loose and do what he says.”

  His statement was enough to cause the bully to release his hold on Gracie, but he got to his feet and kicked his chair back. “And just who do you think you are, big mouth?”

  “I’m the feller who’s gonna whip your ass if you don’t get outta here like I said,” Logan said.

  “Huh,” the brute snorted defiantly, “you gonna whip all three of us?”

  “If I have to,” Logan replied calmly. His assessment of the trio told him that they all appeared too drunk to put up much of a fight—that, and the fact that the man’s two companions did not seem overly enthusiastic about joining in. And he was not discounting Billy’s help after his brother finished emptying all the cartridges out of the weapons on the table by the door.

  “He’s talkin’ mighty big, ain’t he, boys?” the bully snarled with a sneer. “Let’s see if he can back it up.” He shoved Gracie’s chair aside and stepped out in front of the table, only then aware of the effect of the whiskey he had consumed. Spreading his feet wide in an effort to steady himself, he took a wild swing at Logan, missing by a mile.

  Anticipating such a move, Logan ducked down and answered with a hard uppercut under the brute’s chin, which caused him to stagger backward onto the table. Woozy from the uppercut, he managed to push himself up from the table only to meet a hard right hand flush on his nose that drove him down on the floor. The back of his head banged against the edge of the table as he went down, knocking him senseless.