Logan's Word: A Logan Family Western - Book 1 (Logan Family Western Series) Read online

  LOGAN’S WORD

  A LOGAN FAMILY WESTERN

  Book 1

  by

  Donald L. Robertson

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  New Book Notification

  Excerpt from Forty-Four Caliber Justice

  Book List

  Acknowledgments

  Author's Note

  Prologue

  October 19, 1864

  Young Lieutenant Rory Nance lay dying in the fertile Shenandoah Valley. Moments before he had sat astride his cavalry mount, a striking figure—Lieutenant in the United States Cavalry. Now he looked up at men and horses of the Sixth Michigan Volunteer Cavalry as they milled about him. The river valley breeze cleared the air and pushed the stinging smell of gun smoke and blood from the battle scene. Dead and dying men, both blue and gray, and horses littered the normally tranquil forest floor with the carnage of war.

  His best friend and troop commander, Captain Josh Logan, Logan’s tall body and wide shoulders weak from loss of blood, lifted Rory and lay him against the saddle of his dead horse. “You saved my life, Rory,” Josh said as he kneeled alongside his friend.

  “That almost makes us even,” Rory whispered and grinned up at Josh, his even white teeth stained with blood. He gripped Josh’s hand, and his eyes squeezed tight from pain. “That Rebel Captain did me in, Josh. I think he surely did. Did I get him?”

  Josh looked down on his good friend. “You got him, Rory.” They had survived this war together. Now, as the end was nearing, he was watching his friend’s life leak out onto the earth. “Rory, I’ve been almighty proud to be your friend.”

  Rory looked up. “Josh, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Anything.”

  “This war is almost over, and you’re planning to head out and start your horse ranch in Colorado. Could you make a detour to Texas for me? I know it’s out of your way, but my folks would feel some better hearing about this from you instead of the war department.” A spasm of coughing took over his body and frothy pink blood issued from his mouth and nose.

  Josh could hear the sucking sound from the saber wound in Rory’s chest. “I give you my word, Rory.”

  Rory relaxed, leaned back against the saddle, and smiled. “We’ve had a good run, haven’t we?” He was overcome with another spasm of coughing, and his voice grew weaker. “Thanks, Josh. Now … I’d like to rest.” Rory’s grip on Major Joshua Logan’s hand gradually relaxed. He took two more shallow breaths, and the hope of Texas Ranger Bill Nance and the big brother of Mary Louise Nance died in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley.

  Josh continued to grip Rory’s hand. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Captain Sir, Lieutenant Nance is dead, for sure,” Sergeant Pat O’Reilly said. “’Tis a sad thing, his dying. But you need to see to yourself. Your leg and your side are bleeding. It’s now that we must attend to you.”

  “Alright, Sergeant,” Josh said as he laid next to Rory, bracing his back against the dead horse.

  “Did I hear you give your word you’ll go to Texas?”

  “Yes you did, Pat.”

  “Sir, if you’re planning to go to Colorado after this fighting is finished, that’ll be quite a distance out of your way.”

  “Makes no difference, Pat. I gave my word to Rory, and I aim to keep it.”

  Chapter 1

  August 25, 1867

  Joshua Matthew Logan reined the big gray Morgan to a stop, removed his U.S. Cavalry hat, pushed back the black hair that had fallen into his eyes, and wiped sweat from his wide forehead. The scar across his forehead was becoming less pronounced as time passed. He’d been fortunate his opponent was dying when he made this last slash with the saber, otherwise Josh would have remained on the battlefield permanently. Below his pronounced cheekbones, where his hat offered less protection, his face was baked the color of a dry creek bed, the crevices filled with miles of Texas dust.

  Slapping the hat back on his head, he kicked his right foot out of the stirrup, swung his long leg over the saddle, and, with a grace not usually seen in such a big man, stepped softly to the ground.

  He pulled the water bag from the saddle and walked over to the shade, if you could call it shade, of a big mesquite tree. Shadows were starting to lengthen as the day was drawing to a close. He’d have to make camp soon. The big gray followed, pushing at the water bag.

  “Chancy,” he said, as he rubbed the gray between the ears, “we’ve been together too long. I’m talking to you and you’re bossing me. Now somehow that just don’t seem right.”

  He slowly poured water into his hat and let the horse drink.

  “That’s enough for now,” Josh said.

  He took a small sip from the water bag, hung it over the worn saddle, and reached inside his saddle bags. He pulled out some beef jerky and a few oats for the gray. Josh closed the saddle bags and eased his rifle, a .44 caliber 1866 Winchester Yellow Boy, from its scabbard and walked slowly back to the tree.

  The rifle had been a gift from a grateful gentleman, Mr. Nelson King. Josh wasn’t of a mind to take the Winchester, as much as he liked it, but Mr. King wouldn’t accept his refusal. So here he was, with the very best lever action rifle the world had ever seen.

  He gave the oats to his horse, squatted and leaned against the trunk of the tree, careful not to be jabbed by its dagger-like thorns. Josh laid the Winchester next to him, in easy reach should he need it quickly. Texas, in 1867, was only as safe as a man was careful.

  Chewing slowly on the beef jerky, he shifted the Colt revolver hanging by his left hip into a more comfortable position and contemplated Chancy.

  He and Chancy had seen the bear together. Josh had been there with all of the Logan clan, Pa, Ma, and his brothers and sister, when the horse had been born out of solid Morgan stock. That had been eight long years ago. He had been seventeen, almost three years before the war started. Even then people were talking about independence and secession, and how folks in Tennessee had better get ready to stand up for their beliefs.

  The gray’s ears twisted forward, his gaze riveted on the western end of the mesquite thicket. Josh quietly reached for his rifle, stood and moved to his right, keeping the big tree between him and possible trouble.

  Two riders were walking their horses slowly through the trees. He stepped out from behind the mesquite. His movement gave away his position, and for the first time the two riders saw him and his horse. They stopped, then turned and rode slowly toward him.

  “Howdy,” the smaller of the two men said. His twinkling eyes quickly sized up Josh and his horse. “Nice horse.”

  “He’ll do,” Josh replied. His rifle was draped casually in the crook of his right a
rm. It could be brought to bear instantly.

  “You seem a mite cautious with that rifle, mister,” the other man said. He was the bigger of the two riders, broad-shouldered and husky, with forearms jutting out of his rolled up, dirty shirt sleeves like fence posts.

  Josh smiled icily. “Where I come from, if you’re not a mite cautious, you could be a mite dead.”

  “Where do you come from?” the smaller man asked.

  “Well, I might be more apt to speak of it if I knew who I was speaking to.”

  Twinkling eyes glanced at his partner, then back at Josh. He seemed to make up his mind, then grinned. “We ride for the Circle W. I’m Scott Penny and this house-on-a-horse is Bull Westin. Bull’s not much of a talker; guess I make up for both of us.

  “We’ve been trailing some strays. Been some Indian activity hereabouts, and we mean to work those cattle closer to the ranch. Indians do like a young heifer or two if they’re easy to come by.

  “In fact, we were planning on making camp just a ways from here. It’s getting late and we need to be moving on. You’re welcome to join us if you like. Those Indians prefer easy pickins, if you know what I mean.”

  Josh considered for a moment. Spending another night alone on the Texas prairie didn’t bother him, even with the threat of Indians. He’d spent many a night alone in a dry camp over the past few years, but if he went with them, it would give him a chance to find out where this Circle W outfit was and maybe locate the Rocking N.

  “My name’s Logan, boys, Josh Logan, and I’d be much obliged for some company tonight. All the conversation I’ve had here lately has been with my horse. Course, that’s not all bad. He don’t talk back.”

  Josh Logan slid the Winchester Yellow Boy back into the scabbard and swung up into the saddle. He looked at Bull and said, “Reckon I’ve been traveling by myself so long that I might be getting just a mite cautious.”

  Bull looked sullenly at Josh for a moment before jerking his horse around into a walk. “It happens,” he said gruffly.

  There would be a full moon tonight, Josh noticed. The pale white orb rose early above the Texas prairie, looking balefully upon the three riders as they slowly followed the cattle trail. This was going to be a real Comanche moon tonight, bright enough to ride pall-mall across the prairie, without fear of unseen gopher holes lying in wait to break a horse’s leg or a man’s neck, bright enough to take a white man’s cattle, bright enough to take a white man’s scalp.

  “You’re not from these parts,” Scott Penny observed as they neared a small creek.

  It was already getting dark under the thick canopy of pecan trees. The moonlight could hardly penetrate the overhead foliage.

  “Nope,” Josh replied as he examined the shadows beneath the trees. This was Pecan Bayou, he thought. His friend Rory Nance had spoken many times, during the war, of hunting along the Pecan and the Jim Ned. Jim Ned Creek should be another seven or eight miles west.

  Scott Penny and Bull Westin dismounted in the pecan grove.

  “We’ll camp here tonight,” Scott said. “There’s water in the creek and plenty of grass for the horses.”

  “Fine,” Josh said, as he surveyed the area.

  The cut bank of the creek was about fifteen yards away. The creek bottom was rocky and the whole area was covered with old dry pecan leaves and hulls. It was fairly clear of underbrush beneath the trees, but the outer edges of the creek were lined with thick brambles and broomweed.

  No one, not even the most stealthy Comanche, could slip quietly through these leaves. The campsite would be well hidden from any observers outside the pecan grove. It would be almost impossible to see into the depths of the grove through the bramble perimeter.

  “You picked a good campsite,” Josh told Scott.

  “Thanks,” Scott said, as he grinned at Josh through the deepening darkness.

  Josh turned his horse so his back wouldn’t be toward the other two men and dismounted, an act that didn’t go unnoticed. He rapidly stripped his bedroll and saddlebags from Chancy, then laid the Winchester on the saddlebags and removed the saddle and blanket. After rubbing the horse down and watering him, he staked him out with sufficient rope to feed. He spread his bedroll and sat down, leaning back against his saddle.

  Not far down the creek, turkeys could be heard yelping as they walked toward the roost. In a few moments, the crashing and clucking began as they flew up into the big pecan trees, hitting limbs and jockeying for position high above the ground, also above any marauding coyotes or bobcats. They continued to cluck and fuss as they settled down for the night.

  “At least we don’t have to worry about Indians coming from down the creek,” Scott said, listening to the clamor of the turkeys.

  “Maybe,” Josh said. He picked up the Winchester and worked the lever, throwing out the round in the chamber and driving in a fresh one. Picking up the ejected round, he examined it, and slid it back into the rifle’s magazine, confirming the magazine was full and there was a round in the chamber. He lowered the hammer on the rifle and laid it aside. Drawing the Model 1860 .44 Colt Army, he checked all the loads carefully before finally sliding it back into the holster. With both weapons checked, he relaxed against the saddle.

  “You expectin’ trouble?” Bull asked.

  “I never expect trouble. But if it comes looking for me I aim to be ready,” Josh replied.

  “You never said where you’re from.”

  “Bull, I assume that’s what everybody calls you, you’re right. I didn’t. Not that it’s any of your business; I’m from Tennessee—northern Tennessee.”

  Bull glared at Josh through the deepening darkness. “I need a smoke,” Bull said. He pulled out his tobacco sack and matches.

  “You’ve got a choice,” Josh said. “You can go down into the creek bottom, where the light won’t be seen, or you can chew it, but don’t light it. I crossed Indian sign about a mile back from where we met. They were Comanches and traveling light; probably spoilin’ for a fight.”

  “He’s right, Bull,” Scott said. “You never know where those Comanches could be. We sure don’t want to wake up with our hair hanging on some Indian’s lance.”

  “We’re back here in this thicket,” Bull said. He rolled the cigarette, put it in his mouth, took out a match, and started to strike the match on his gunbelt buckle.

  “Ain’t nobody goin’ to see us. Anyway, no Yankee drifter is tellin’ me when I can or can’t have a smo—”

  A sickening hollow thud sounded as Josh’s rifle butt struck Bull just above the jawbone. He hadn’t seen nor had he sensed the speed with which Josh Logan picked up his Winchester by the barrel and back-handed Bull with the stock. The unlit match and cigarette fell silently to the ground.

  “Mister, you could kill a man hitting him like that,” Scott said.

  “He could have killed us if he’d lit that match. I’ll not abide stupidity. Specially if it might get me killed.”

  “Well, I sure wouldn’t want to be in your boots. He’s gonna be madder than a wet hen when he wakes up.”

  Josh looked at the crumpled and bleeding figure at his feet. “He won’t have far to look. I’ll be right here.” He turned slightly so he was facing Scott. “If you’ve a mind to deal yourself into this hand, now’s the time.”

  “No siree-bob. That was all his doing. I reckon you might have saved my hair tonight, and I’ve no call to be put-out about that.”

  “In that case,” Josh asked, as he returned to his bedroll and sat down. “I wonder if you might answer some questions for me?”

  “Well, sure, I’ll try. I do a lot of talking, but I don’t usually have a lot of answers.”

  “How long have you been working for the Circle W?”

  “It’s been a little over a month. Just drifted in from Fredericksburg way. Had an itch to move north—maybe on up to Colorado Territory. Understand there’s some gold showing up in those mountains west of Colorado City. So anyway, I needed a little stake since I lost most of my
money in a card game down in Brownwood, and I heard the Circle W was hiring. So I—”

  “Whoa, slow down, Scott. I didn’t ask for your life’s history; I just need a little information.”

  “Uh yeah, that’s been my problem. Pa always said that if words were an axe, I could clear a section of land in a day’s time. Anyway, I been working one month at the Circle W. That’s where I met Bull Westin. He’s been riding for them quite a while.”

  “Scott, have you heard of the Rocking N?”

  “The Rocking N? Yeah, I have. Why?”

  Josh ignored Scott’s question. “What can you tell me about them?”

  “I don’t know much,” Scott said. “Seems Mr. Nance, he came out here from around San Antone ‘bout ‘45 or ‘46. From what I hear he was tougher than an old boar coon, what with all that rangerin’ he did.

  “He brought his wife and kids. Didn’t have but two, a boy and a girl. Plus he pushed up, so the story goes, about a thousand head of those rangy longhorns he choused out of the brush south of San Antone. Supposedly he was big friends with Sam Houston, though I don’t know that for a fact being’s I’ve just been around here for a short while.”

  Josh leaned back against his saddle, suppressing a grin. For being around such a short while, Scott Penny had certainly picked up a lot of information, some of it more accurate than Scott was aware.

  The night had cooled into a comfortable evening. A light breeze was blowing, rustling the leaves on the pecan trees and carrying away the afternoon heat. Nearby an armadillo shuffled through the pecan leaves searching for grubs and ants. A family of coyotes serenaded the moon as it shone over the hills to the east. The solitude spoke to him as it had spoken to many of his warrior ancestors on the Scottish moors so many years before.

  Through the brambles and sagebrush he could see the prairie surrounding the grove, bright in the light of the moon, peaceful for now. Hopefully it would stay that way. Josh had no desire to confront those Comanche braves. It was obvious from their tracks that they were traveling light and looking for blood. It was his aim to make sure it wasn’t his. For that reason, he had moved quickly when Bull started to light that cigarette.