Hanging Fire

by Eric Red

  She didn’t react, just held out her open palm in a pay the girl gesture.

  He grabbed twelve .40-44 cartridges from his gun belt. Stuffed them into her small fist. Lightning fast, she flipped open the cylinder of the Colt Peacemaker, stuffed in six rounds, closed the gun, and stuck the rest of the shells in her pocket. “Cover me,” she ordered, giving him a steely parting glance, then took off in a low crouch down the side of the hill under the tree line below the enemy’s line of sight.

  If the posse saw her, they didn’t try to shoot her, Noose saw, but they sure as hell were shooting at him, getting ever closer and their shots more accurate by the foot.

  Noose paused to reload, hugging the dirt as lead screamed around him. He doubted Bonny Kate would use the opportunity to flee because she wouldn’t get far. It struck him as odd that the person he felt he could most depend on right this very second was the prisoner he was taking to be hanged, but the world was a strange place. This entire situation had a whole lot of irony; it had from the start. That was more thinking than Noose was used to or comfortable with and with his Winchester chock-full of rounds he got back to what he was comfortable with, which was shooting people.

  * * *

  Waylon Bojack whirled and saw her right there in the flesh staring straight at him.

  Bonny Kate Valance stood no more than ten feet away.

  It was the last thing the old lawman had been expecting and to say he was at a disadvantage would have been a considerable understatement.

  Once back on his farm in Arizona a whole litter of his black Labrador dog’s pups had been killed and eaten by a single dangerous coyote and on that night he had woken to the awful sounds of the puppies’ hideous cries outside as they were torn to pieces. Within less than a minute’s time, Bojack was out of bed and had grabbed his rifle and rushed outside but the pups were gone and so was the coyote; no blood, no anything. All night the sheriff had sat up in his chair on the porch with his rifle, hoping to get a shot at the miserable cur that had savagely massacred his beloved dog’s litter. Bojack remembered staring out into the darkness and seeing nothing, hearing nothing, just the mother dog’s mournful mewling that her children had been taken from her. As dawn broke, the man fell asleep, only to wake up and open his eyes to see the coyote standing ten feet away looking him straight in the eye, well fed and visceral and defiant in its feral stare locked to his own, the look saying, I killed them, I’d do it again, and I can take anything you love anytime I want. Bojack had been so shocked and half-asleep he had become flummoxed and forgotten he had set his scattergun down on the porch, and in his groggy disorientation had taken a few seconds too long to pick it up and by then the coyote was long gone. He never forgot that baleful look the predator gave him.

  The same exact look Bonny Kate Valance was giving him now.

  The old man was so unnerved by the unexpected sight of the woman that he fumbled with his gun. It was that evil smile on her face that undid him. Her triumphal blue eyes locked on his.

  So that he noticed the leveled revolver in her hand a fraction of a second too late, and by then it was going off in a bright, hot flash of fire and smoke and all he could do was wait for the hard impact in his chest but instead that’s when he saw the blur of his deputy Clay Slayton leaping in front him and the next thing he felt was the hot, salty blood from the bullet wound the man suffered.

  Sheriff Bojack let out a frightened little whimper when he looked up.

  She was gone. Vanished in thin air. Like Bonny Kate was the devil himself but then he already knew that.

  “Pull out! Pull out! ” Bojack screamed to his men, as he dragged Slayton’s body by the arms even though he already knew the man was dead from the fist-sized hole in his chest and all the blood left on the leaves in a gory snail trail from the exit wound crater in his spine. The sheriff was totally unnerved, in an utter panic, and his men didn’t know what to do so they followed orders and retreated.

  * * *

  Nearby, up the hill, Noose couldn’t believe his eyes. Wasn’t sure what he just saw. A moment before, Bonny Kate had snuck behind the posse in the flanking maneuver she worked out and fired only one shot. She had the sheriff dead to rights but a deputy had jumped in front, taken the bullet, and been shot dead. Her sudden armed and unexpected appearance seemed to have rattled the Arizona lawmen so badly that they just pulled out. It was at Bojack’s orders and Noose could clearly hear the fear and panic in the man’s voice. For now, the posse had fallen back and the gunfight was over.

  For now.

  Noose figured once they settled down, they’d come back to finish what they came to do . . . he harbored no illusions about that.

  Joe Noose rose and stood up, certain no bullets would be coming his way. The area had gotten very quiet and still and the fog of drifting gun smoke was dissipating.

  When the smoke cleared, Bonny Kate Valance was standing five feet away, holding his Colt Peacemaker in her small left fist—somehow, the big gun fit her like a glove. The weapon wasn’t pointed at him, but it wasn’t pointed away, either.

  Noose froze. Did some quick mental calculations: The barrel of his Winchester was pointed down—it still had two .45 rounds in it—if he was fast, he could swing the barrel up and get a shot off but Noose had seen the woman handle a pistol and had no doubt he would be dead the exact same time he pulled the trigger when she shot him—Noose guessed he’d be alive long enough to drop Bonny Kate with his single round—but it would be awash ... they’d both be dead.

  The female outlaw wore no expression on her face. She flipped the pistol out of her hand, stock spinning, and caught it by the barrel.

  And she handed it back to him.

  He took the gun and spun it back in his left holster.

  Bonny Kate was once again unarmed. The lady outlaw smiled mischievously, knowing what he had been thinking like she was in his skull and could read his mind, but didn’t mention it. “I bought us some time,” was all she said.

  “Thanks.” It seemed like the proper reply, so he gave it.

  “Don’t mention it.” She winked.

  They stood facing each other.

  Finally she shrugged. “Well, what the hell are we waiting for?” she quipped. “We got a hanging to get to.”

  Noose had to grin, showing his crooked teeth, and was extra gentlemanly as he helped the lady into the saddle of her horse, then swung a leg over his own and off the two rode into the higher elevations.

  CHAPTER 16

  Marshal Bess Sugarland hated him on sight.

  It was just after three in the afternoon. The new Jackson peace officer was in the office cleaning her Winchester repeater, even though she had little need to as the rifle had been getting more use as a crutch than a firearm lately, and having a cup of coffee. Her leg was hurting more than usual today, as the bullet wound continued its slow healing process. Another trip to the doctor was in order so she could have the dressing changed and the wound treated with ointment. Marshal Bess had been offered a bottle of laudanum several times by the local physician but she had demurred, not wanting to be under the influence of narcotics while she held her U.S. Marshal’s office post and bore those duties. So she bit the bullet against the chronic pain literally and figuratively, a .45 round clenched in her back teeth this morning. Most of the time she kept it in her cheek but when the waves of pain came on she bit down on it. In that way, the U.S. Marshal’s daughter was like her father in her stubborn insistence on keeping a clear head and taking physical pain straight. The cartridge in Marshal Bess’s mouth looked to most folks like she had a wad of chewing tobacco in her cheek and nobody seemed to notice she never spit.

  The female lawman was antsy and restless today, feeling on pins and needles, her mood edgy and preoccupied. She kept glancing out the window at the grand vista of the Teton Pass, imagining Joe Noose’s progress with Bonny Kate Valance and squinting at the barely visible mountain road amidst the distant pines, trying to pinpoint where they would likely be even though t
hey were far beyond the scope of her vision. Bess couldn’t help herself; she would not be able to relax until noon tomorrow when Bonny Kate took the drop and she would know Noose had made it to Victor safe—she had twice telegraphed the local sheriff, Al Shurlock to send her a wire when her deputized friend arrived with his prisoner. Bess was also worried about that Arizona posse that had ridden through that morning even though they were long gone and she had not given them any information about Valance or Noose or where they were. In recent hours Marshal Bess fancied she heard the echo of gunshots coming from the direction of the pass a long way off, but they could have been anything. She had to stop her fretting.

  But she couldn’t. Luckily it had been a slow day in Jackson save for that dodgy sheriff and his deputies that morning, and not one person had walked through the door of the U.S. Marshal’s office until he did.

  Just ambled right in like he belonged here, even like he owned the place.

  The cowboy was tall, rangy, clean-cut, square jawed, and arrogant as hell in his straight posture and upright bearing. His jeans were too tight. His Stetson and denim shirt and jacket were clean and pressed, boots spit and polished. Below close-cropped blond hair, his Johnny Appleseed scrubbed face was covered with red freckles behind a corn silk–colored, groomed beard.

  The man looked about thirty and had confident eyes that let folks know he could handle himself as he swaggered inside. A sweep of his unblinking, indolent gaze took in the modest office. Everything about this kid rubbed Marshal Bess the wrong way; mostly, it was the flat expression of aloof disregard of her office that irritated her, like he was checking into a hotel and felt the room looked too cheap. Plus, he kept his hat on his head like it was cold, and didn’t remove it, displaying another lack of respect for her office. And, worst, the jerk looked right through her, like he was looking for somebody else. I’m the damn marshal, Bess thought to herself, so who the hell else would you be looking for?

  Therefore Bess Sugarland gave the young, cocky interloper the stink eye while he stood there sucking her air—didn’t even bother to greet him like she normally would anybody else.

  After a moment, the man strode right up to the desk, barely acknowledging her presence. “I’m looking for the marshal,” was all he said.

  Biting down on the bullet in the side of her mouth hard enough that she felt molar enamel grind on polished brass, Marshal Bess simply locked eyes with him, leaned back in her chair, then lifted open the side of her coat, displaying the seven-star silver badge on her bosom.

  The look of surprise and disadvantage on the man’s face almost made her feel better, even though he seemed to be staring equally at her badge and her breasts, so she closed her coat and leaned forward on her desk with her hands clasped together in half fists, staring straight up at him and raising an eyebrow, which told him to state his business.

  “You’re the marshal?” the youngster said, cracking an annoying grin that broke into a guffaw as he let out a hee-haw laugh that reminded her of the jackass she completely took him to be.

  Now Bess was angry. “Yes, and who the hell are you and what are you doing in my office? State your business.”

  “Yes, sir, I mean, ma’am, I mean, Marshal. I am Nate Sweet, your new deputy.”

  “What?” Her eyes widened. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Nate Sweet took a folded official paper out of his denim jacket and presented it to her with a flourish. Warily, she snatched it from his fingers and opened it and the first thing she saw was the U.S. Marshals Service stamp on the letterhead. “I was dispatched from headquarters in Cody last week and ordered to report to the new marshal in Jackson but they didn’t tell me the marshal was a she.”

  “You got a problem with that?” Tired of sitting with this annoying new deputy looking down at her, Bess rose to her feet and felt a sudden stabbing pain in the bullet wound in her leg, wrapped in the wooden brace that caused her to flinch and buckle over slightly as she stood up behind her desk to be eye to eye with him. Immediately, Sweet saw her leg injury and was dumb enough to point at it.

  “They didn’t tell me you was a cripple, neither. I can see why they sent a man to give you backup. Must be why they figured you needed some help, ma’am, I mean, Marshal.”

  “That’s it, junior.” Marshal Bess’s face flushed with a high color and she glared at him..

  “Didn’t they wire you that they were sending me—?”

  “Shut up.”

  He did. Now his eyes were wide.

  “No,” she continued. “Cody did not wire me that they were sending a deputy. If they had, I’d’ve sent you across the pass with that damned lady outlaw instead of my friend, so thanks to you, and them, for nothing.”

  “I-I’d just heard, I mean, they just told me, that the old marshal and his deputy had got themselves shot last month and that there—”

  “Which part of shut up don’t you understand, junior?”

  He closed his mouth and kept it closed. The first smart thing Bess Sugarland had seen Nate Sweet do since he walked in.

  “You have any experience?”

  Sweet nodded.

  “How many years with the U.S. Marshals Service?”

  He held up two hands and showed seven fingers.

  “Can you shoot?”

  Another nod.

  “Can you ride?”

  Nod.

  “Ever shot a man?”“

  Sweet shook his head.

  “Ever been in a gunfight?”

  Another head shake.

  Walking around the side of her desk in a tight limp, Marshal Bess got nose to nose with Sweet and looked him straight in the eye. “My name is Bess Sugarland. My father was a U.S. Marshal for thirty years and I was his deputy for ten of those so that’s my experience. For your damn information I ain’t no cripple. I got shot in the leg in the line of duty during a gunfight and I have shot men dead. I have not shot a deputy yet but there’s a first time for everything, Deputy. Cody assigned you here, fine, but this is my jurisdiction and you will do what I say when I say it. If you perform those duties to my satisfaction then we will not have a problem. Understand me? You may speak now.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nate Sweet answered respectfully.

  “Marshal,” she corrected him.

  “Marshal.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The lowering sky above the pass had begun to color with late afternoon as Joe Noose and Bonny Kate Valance rode their horses at a relaxed pace along the natural trail. For the last hour they had traveled in safety, their transit unmolested, and Noose sensed no immediate danger in the woods around them. At least for the present. While he kept one eye peeled and one hand near his gun, Noose felt looser and began a casual banter with Bonny Kate. He admitted to himself he enjoyed talking to her. She was funny, bawdy, and ribald in conversation. In another time and place Noose might have taken a genuine shine to Bonny Kate as many men had, to their considerable disadvantage, he reminded himself. But for right now the ride and the company were pleasant enough as the traveling companions talked easily about this and that and even shared some jokes, and the cowboy grew comfortable enough to ask his prisoner something he’d been meaning to since they set out from Jackson.

  “Mind if I ask you a question, Bonny Kate? Kind of personal, I reckon. Don’t have to answer if you don’t feel like it.”

  “You can ask me anything you want, Joe. Not like I have any secrets worth taking to the grave.”

  “Could be it’s a question can’t be answered.”

  “Won’t know if I don’t hear it. Ask away.”

  Noose’s brow knitted as he tried to properly word his question. He fell back on Copper to ride alongside Bonny Kate, and when he finally looked over at her saw she held his gaze honest and true. Noose spoke softly with a rough sort of kindness in his voice. “How did you go wrong, Bonny Kate? How did it all come to this? I know why men go wrong ’cause I know how men think. Reckon that’s because I am one. But I don’t lay claim
to understand women, and what makes one good like Bess or bad like you. How did you go so wrong, what brought you so low?”

  “If this is your idea of small talk, Joe, you need some lessons in talking to girls.” She grinned, and he laughed, embarrassed.

  “Shucks, you don’t have to answer.”

  She looked ahead while they rode and thought it over. “No, it’s a good question. You mean when did I make the decision to turn outlaw, to rob banks and shoot people, when did I decide this was the life for me?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I don’t think I chose the life, Joe, I think it chose me.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “But when you want to know? What was my story? What was my family like? Before.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” he answered.

  Then the conversation took a sideways turn when Bonny Kate asked Noose an offhand question.

  “What’s the story with you and that Marshal Bess back there?”

  “It’s complicated.” He shrugged.

  “Always is. I got time.”

  “I work for her.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Bess has big boots to wear in town, being the only law in Jackson—one woman running the U.S. Marshal’s office, so I help her out when I can.”

  “You’re a bounty hunter.”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I’m a deputy marshal. Whatever she needs.”

  “Reckon it’s handy having you around.”

  “Depends on what side of the law you’re on.”

  “It’s handy her having you on hers, is what I meant. A woman likes a strong man watching her back. Makes her feel protected.”

  “Bess can handle herself. She’s a heck of a lady. And a hell of a marshal.”

  “I can see that. A woman marshal, now, that’s damn impressive. Never met a lady marshal or sheriff once before her, not in my entire career. This may sound strange coming from me, but I say it is high time women wore a badge. If a woman had been enforcing the law, I’d have been brought to justice years ago. It’s because of all these stupid men holding lawman positions I’ve had the run I’ve had, believe it. Women are smarter than men. We’re the superior species. They say I’m historical because I’m making history being the first female outlaw to get hanged, well, that’s a lot of hooey because it don’t take no brains to get yourself killed. I just got caught, was all. Historical is your marshal friend back there. Bess Sugarland is the one who made history, becoming the first female marshal.”