Noose Jumpers: A Mythological Western

by Trevor H. Cooley

  Sandy opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. He glanced back over his shoulder. Neither of his friends seemed to have followed after him, but noise carried easily down that ravine. He didn’t need them hearing him talking to himself.

  “Not here,” he said in a harsh whisper and urged his horse forward. He rode gingerly down the steep embankment expecting Pecos to follow behind him, but when he reached the trail at the bottom, the specter was nowhere to be found.

  Sandy grunted in irritation at his backer’s disappearance, but continued on. The path that curved through the hills was narrow and treacherous anyway, not the best place for conversation. There was a good two miles of trail for him to traverse before the ground would be flat enough and the path wide enough for the specter to ride comfortably alongside him.

  Sandy spent the journey becoming more and more agitated as he mulled over the events of the robbery. He ground his teeth as he thought about the wave of paralysis that had come over him in Jeb’s presence. He had felt the sting of fear. His muscles had been sluggish, resisting his commands to move. It had been as if the sheriff’s will had overcome his. To a man like Sandy, who kept thoughtful control over each action, that possibility was unacceptable.

  When he reached the edge of the hills and his backer didn’t appear right away, Sandy let out a shout. “Pecos!”

  No answer. Grumbling, he spent another hour riding in silence before he came to a small stream. Sandy stopped and dismounted, letting the horse drink while he kept replaying the moment he had fired at the sheriff over in his mind.

  He could remember watching in slow motion as the bullet hurtled towards the man’s heart, then curved around his body before disappearing into the distance. He was so focused on the memory that he nearly jumped out of his boots when Pecos’ voice suddenly echoed from the air next to him.

  “Ready to talk yet?” the specter asked as he blew into existence with a stiff gust of dust-filled wind.

  Sandy barely grabbed onto his hat in time. He scowled, blinking at the dirt that blew into his face. “Ready to-? Do you make that wind blow on purpose?”

  “I can control it sometimes,” Pecos replied with a shrug. “But when I come and go it does it mostly on its own.”

  “Well, it’s a damned nuisance,” Sandy snapped, his scowl not lessening. “Knocks my hat off so often I sometimes wonder why I bother wearing it.”

  The specter grinned around a cheek stuffed with tobacco. “Wind’s part of life, son. It’s gonna happen whether I’m here or not.” He snorted. “If it bothers you that much you should get a tighter hat. That one looks all beat to hell anyway.”

  “Tight hats give me a headache,” Sandy replied, his teeth clenched. “And the only reason this one is so beat up is that you keep blowing it off!” His eyes narrowed. “That leads me to another question. Why do you gotta come and go all the time? Why not just hang around?”

  Pecos raised one eyebrow. “That’s the type of question that’s burning your mind? After everything that went down with the Sheriff?”

  “Oh, I got plenty questions for you, Pecos,” Sandy said. “I’ve had time to do lots of thinking over the past two days and it’s occurred to me that there’s many things you ain’t bothered to tell me about.”

  The old cowboy chuckled. “It ain’t like I’m hiding things from you, son. If there’s things we ain’t discussed, it’s ’cause you don’t talk much.”

  Sandy’s scowl lessened slightly. “Then let’s start discussing by you answering my question. Why do you gotta blow in and out all the time?”

  “Alright,” Pecos said. He spat onto the ground. “Being a . . . backer is more complicated than you think. Making myself appear to you takes energy. Making myself solid enough to grab things takes more. Most of the time when I come and go I’m doing it ’cause I have to. Resting gives me that energy back.”

  Sandy nodded slowly, absorbing the information. “Then why stay around as much as you do? Why not just stay gone unless you have something to say?” When they were on the trail Pecos often rode with him for hours at a time. Sometimes he stayed around all day.

  “Look here, son. Back in my day, I was a cowpoke. Riding the trails and feeling the sun on my face is what makes me feel alive.” His brow tightened, a haunted look entering his eyes. “But now I’m in a sort of in-between place. When I ain’t making myself appear to you I can’t feel anything. Now, I can see what’s going on and hear what folks are saying, but that’s it. It’s like being stuck between life and death.”

  Sandy repressed a shiver as he tried to imagine what that would be like. “Sounds like hell to me.”

  “Better than being gone altogether like most folks who die,” Pecos said. He shook his head. “But enough of that. You should be asking me about something more important. Like your friend, the Sheriff of Puerta Muerte.”

  Sandy nodded slowly. “I figure he’s got a backer, someone strong like you.”

  “Nope,” said the specter. “There’s something else going on.”

  “You sure about that?” Sandy said. He had been so certain his suspicion was right. “How else could he do what he did? Bullets don’t just dodge out of the way on their own.”

  “Look, I can tell when there’s someone else like me around and there wasn’t.” Pecos spat again. “Naw, he was using some other kind of witchery.”

  Sandy blinked at him. “Witchery?”

  The specter shrugged. “Something like that.”

  A laugh burst past Sandy’s lips. “I thought you were gonna blame it on the devil or something. That I could believe. I mean, Luke swore to me he saw the devil once, but . . . I just got used to the idea of ghosts being real and now you say Jeb Wickee’s a witch?”

  “No. That ain’t what I’m saying. Just ’cause I called it witchery don’t mean it has to be a witch that does it.” Pecos sighed. “Hell, how do you think I do what I do? I called it energy earlier, but call it what you want. Witchery, magic, hoodoo; folks got lots of names for it. Point is, that cotton-picker found some way to use that stuff to do what he done.”

  Sandy licked his lips, digesting that information. “So . . . you’re saying he’s found a way to use the same kind of power you got. But he does it without a backer?”

  “Good gravy, boy,” Pecos said, taking off his hat to scratch his head. “I keep forgetting how little you seen in your life. I know you live in calm times, but shoot. Witchery’s used all over the place all the time. It was more visible back in my day maybe, but that was just a few decades ago. Why, when I was a young’un I saw things that’d make you piss your drawers.”

  Sandy frowned. “Then explain it to me.”

  Pecos chuckled. “Witchery ain’t a thing that’s easy to explain. Leastways, I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just a thing that is. This stuff is all around us.” He placed his hat back on his head. “I can tell you this, though. The fact that your old acquaintance can use it ain’t as strange as it seems. Folks tend to gain abilities over time, especially the more famous they get. That’s one of the reasons I’m trying to help you become a legend.”

  Sandy filed away that speech to absorb all the implications later. He focused on one relevant point. “So you think the reason Jeb can use this power he has is because he’s become a legend?”

  “Naw, he didn’t have that sort of glamour about him,” replied the specter. “Or, hmph, I suppose that depends on how you’re defining the word ‘legend’.” He cocked his head. “You want to be one. What does that word mean to you?”

  “Well . . .” Sandy folded his arms and thought. Becoming a legend had always seemed a simple goal to him, but now that he had been asked to describe it he found the word harder to define than he thought. “I suppose it’s like you said. A person that’s famous.”

  Pecos snorted. “If it were that simple, it’d be easy. Anybody can grab a gun and raise Cain and become famous for a while. Hell, outlaws try to become legends that way all the time. Now that can give them a short burs
t of power, but fame gained quick like that is just as easily forgotten. A true legend don’t fade from memory. That’s why they got power that lasts.”

  Sandy didn’t quite understand the link between legends and this witchery the specter spoke of, but he went along with it. “And how does this apply to Jeb Wickee?”

  “I never was the best teacher.” The old cowboy’s brow furrowed. “Let me try saying this a different way. The Sheriff of Puerta Muerte ain’t well known. He wouldn’t want it that way. It’d bring the law down on him. So he’s had to be satisfied with building a local sort of fame. He’s got that whole town following him and all them outlaw varmints in the area round about. That could be enough for him to gain power in the short run.”

  Pecos rubbed his chin. “Now what I’m supposing is he got enough of them folks to believe he could dodge bullets that he gained the ability to do it.”

  “Just because the locals think he can?” Sandy said dubiously.

  “That’s the nature of witchery,” Pecos replied with a shrug. “But that ability ain’t the real problem. There’s lots of ways to kill a man besides shooting him. The problem is getting close enough to do it.”

  “That other power he had,” Sandy said.

  “Yeah. The way he made all you boys and your horses freeze up like that.” His eyes widened. “Doing that took a lot of power. Let me tell you, it set my ears to ringing and that’s something a man like him shouldn’t have been able to manage.”

  “Alright,” Sandy said, unnerved by the awe in Pecos’ voice. “But do you know how to beat this power of his?”

  The specter shrugged. “I’ve been around a long time, but I don’t know everything. Like I said, he shouldn’t have been able to do it in the first place.”

  “That’s not a lot of help.” He had been so confident that Pecos would have the answers. Sandy kicked the dirt in front of him, letting out a sigh. “I suppose we’ll just have to figure out something on the way there.”

  “What?” said Pecos in surprise. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking to go back to Puerta Muerte now!”

  “Why not? Seems to me that my best chance to get to him is catch him by surprise,” Sandy said. “The last thing Jeb would expect right now is for me to come after him.”

  “Sounds like your friend Luke talking,” Pecos replied. “What’s the point of going back to kill the man? You already got your revenge. That’s what that dod-gasted robbery was about in the first place!”

  Sandy gave him a calm look in response. “Yeah, well that robbery was a mistake. I’ve been thinking about it ever since we got away. Jeb ain’t gonna cool down. We hit him too hard. He’ll hunt us to the end of his days and I don’t plan to run forever. Besides, even if I could keep ahead of him, what if he caught up to Tom or Luke?” He shook his head. “Better I end this now.”

  Pecos grunted. “Then what’s your plan, son? Sneak your way past all the outlaws looking for you? Sneaking ain’t one of your strong suits. Even if you did make it into town, then what? You can’t fight him head on. He’ll just freeze you up and shoot you in the blasted face!”

  Sandy couldn’t argue with that. “Then I won’t fight him head on.”

  Pecos spat. “Oh? You gonna hide in the man’s house? Stab him in the back or in his sleep? Is that how Sandy Tucker plans to make himself known? As the cowardly assassin?”

  Sandy narrowed his eyes at the specter. That was the opposite of what he wanted and Pecos knew it. “Then I won’t let it be known I did it.” Pecos scoffed and Sandy threw up his hands in frustration. “What? What do you want me to say?”

  “What I want is for you not to be a damned fool!” Pecos barked.

  “Then give me an alternate plan,” Sandy said through gritted teeth. “You’re supposed to be my backer. Back me.”

  “Well . . .” Pecos grimaced. “There might be something, but it’s almost as stupid as what you were gonna do.”

  Sandy folded his arms and waited.

  “I might know someone that could explain the Sheriff’s powers better than me,” the cowboy admitted reluctantly. “She might be able to tell us how to fight him.”

  “Then why didn’t you mention it before?” Sandy asked.

  “Because it’s a stupid idea!” Pecos said. “The woman’s a witch.”

  Sandy’s jaw dipped. “You’re not joking this time. A witch?”

  “True and honest. She’s a witch, warts and all. I’d say it on a Bible,” Pecos said, making the sign of the cross across his chest. “And she’s uglier inside than she is outside. I tell you I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could spit her.”

  Sandy had never seen his backer act so nervous before. He let out a slow breath. “But she’ll know what to do?”

  Pecos spat out the wad of tobacco he’d been chewing on. He screwed up his face in distaste. “I imagine so.”

  “I’d say we have a plan then,” Sandy decided. “Where is this witch?”

  “I was hoping to avoid ever going back,” the specter said. He looked westward. “We can find her near the banks of the Rio Grande. Not far north of Mesilla.”

  “Mesilla,” Sandy repeated with a frown. It was a major town and one of Tom and Luke’s favorite places to spend their loot. The place was likely to be crawling with the sheriff’s outlaws. “That’s a good week of hard riding from here.”

  “And you’ll have to stay off the good roads so call it ten days,” Pecos added.

  “Then we’d best get started,” said Sandy.

  Pecos nodded and let out a whistle. The sound of pounding hooves echoed out of thin air and, moments later, a gust of wind brought Widowmaker to his side. He reached up and patted the horse’s neck. “Before we go . . .”

  Pecos walked over to the stream and crouched down. He dipped both hands into the cool water and raised it to his lips. Closing his eyes, he took two slow gulps and let out a deep sigh.

  Sandy raised an eyebrow. “You can actually taste that water?”

  Pecos wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and looked back at him. “When I concentrate on it I can. Takes a lot more energy than just appearing to you.” He grinned and dipped another double handful, splashing water on his face. “But I think it’s worth it.”

  “And it don’t bother you that you’re drinking downstream from my horse?” Sandy asked.

  Pecos looked upstream to see Sandy’s mare standing with all four hooves in the water. She chose that moment to lift her head and snort, two long strings of saliva hanging from her lips.

  Widowmaker let out a snicker and Pecos winced. “Damn. Been dead too long. I’m out of practice.”

  They set off, the two of them riding down the road a short ways before heading westward into a wide flatland of scrub brush laden plains. Pecos stayed by Sandy’s side for the first several miles, riding in silence before disappearing again. The specter didn’t return until Sandy stopped for the night and then only to announce that he would be absent for most of the journey. It was important that he save up energy in case his powers would be needed when they came upon the witch.

  The next week of travel went by slower than Sandy liked. Pecos had been right about the delays that would be caused by keeping himself hidden. He spent the majority of his time cutting across country. He also kept his distance from any settlements. This meant that he had to hunt along the way. It wasn’t all that difficult. Rabbits and pheasants were plentiful. But it meant he had to take time to skin and cook his catches and he had to do it before dark, since even a small fire was visible from miles away in those flat plains.

  Pecos’ absence made the journey a solitary experience, giving Sandy a lot of time to mull things over in his mind. The specter only showed up in the evenings, usually just before dark while Sandy was eating. He would stay just long enough to answer whatever questions had been burning in Sandy’s mind during the day. Then Pecos would disappear from sight again, though Sandy knew he was still somewhere close by keeping watch. That was one tangible benefit of having a backer.
Sandy didn’t have to worry about anyone or anything sneaking up on him while he slept.

  There was one close call just after he forded the Pecos River when he passed a large number of sheep being herded down to the river to drink. He rode down a gully to avoid the eyes of the herders and continued on, fairly sure that his presence had gone unseen. Eventually, he put the plains behind him and headed into the Guadalupe mountains.

  On the far side of the mountains was another long stretch of desert plains. Water was scarce, but Pecos’ help was invaluable here as he appeared time and again to point out obscure springs. When Sandy reached the last line of mountains in his way, he took a northwesterly route, knowing he wanted to avoid the settlements in and around the Mesilla area.

  As Pecos had predicted, Sandy didn’t see the Rio Grande until the afternoon of the tenth day. Sandy crested a ridge and grinned as he saw the bright gleam of sunlight reflecting off of the waters of the river at the bottom of the valley below. Two hours later, he stopped for the day at the bottom of a dry creek bed, content to finish the last few miles in the morning.

  He celebrated the end of his journey by cooking up a wild turkey he had shot early that morning. Instead of simply skinning the large bird as he usually did, (Plucking had been his least favorite job in his father’s butcher shop growing up.) Sandy took the time to de-feather it and stuffed its skin with sage and wild onion he had found along the trail. Then he set up a spit and cooked it, turning it slowly.

  When Pecos appeared, the smell of sage and roasted fowl filled the air. To Sandy’s surprise, the specter asked if he could share the meal with him. He had never seen Pecos eat before, but the old cowboy lustily devoured one of the legs and a wing.

  As he watched Pecos toss the bones to the side and lick his fingers, Sandy had to ask, “Where is that meat going?”

  Pecos’ eyebrows rose and he stood up. The specter turned, looking at the ground where he had been sitting. “Huh. Don’t know the answer to that one, son. All’s I know is it was mighty tasty. Could’ve used some salt but hey, trail food.”