Noose Jumpers: A Mythological Western

by Trevor H. Cooley

  “There’s men behind you,” the Stranger warned.

  Luke drew his revolver with lightning fast reflexes and fired over his horse’s saddle. He aimed for El Cid’s head, but his eyes had been deceived by the dark. He missed.

  “Light them up!” Luke shouted. He spun around. Though only Luke could see it, glowing coals had appeared right in front of each of the hidden men. The faces of four Black Spots were illuminated in the shadows of buildings around the alleyway.

  He twisted his body, fanning his hammer four times. Each face received a hole. Three of the men died instantly. The fourth cried out and fell to the ground, clutching his ruined face.

  Luke spun back around just in time to hear his horse scream. The trusty mare, his companion for two straight years, reared and kicked before running off jerkily into the night. He saw a knife protruding from her hindquarters.

  “Him too!” Luke said, straining to see the form of the Black Spot’s leader.

  “I’m trying. He’s hard to pin down,” was the Stranger’s answer.

  Luke thought he saw movement and fired again. His muzzle flash revealed the edge of El Cid’s arm, an empty knife sheath strapped to it. The man was still on the move.

  It had to be another facet of Red-Vein’s power. That or El Cid’s own talent had something to do with blending into the dark. That was something Luke hadn’t heard about him before. Either way, Luke’s Smith and Wesson was out of bullets.

  He slammed the revolver back into its holster and backed away, reaching into his jacket for his shoulder holster. He heard the rustle of cloth as his foe darted forward. More by instinct than anything else, Luke dove to the side. His quick reflexes saved him from being skewered at the end of El Cid’s second knife.

  “Again, you are fast,” growled the bear-like, but lithe man. “I would have let you live for the money alone, but you have insulted me by wearing our mark. Red-Vein is right. Your death is worth so much more than any bounty.”

  Luke pulled his old spare from his pants pocket and fired at the sound of the man’s voice. The muzzle flash briefly exposed a moving figure. He fired four more times, emptying the short-muzzled gun’s limited magazine. Each time, he missed, El Cid’s form just out of his bullet’s path.

  The large man changed course suddenly and charged forward. Luke dodged again, but this time he wasn’t quick enough. There was a tugging at his left arm just before El Cid’s shoulder caught him in the chest, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

  Still in the shadows, El Cid sneered. He pulled a short-barreled shotgun from a holster on his back. “So strange to think that you alone killed so many of my friends. When I have finished with you, I will return to the schoolhouse and gut everyone.”

  While the Black Spot’s leader spoke, Luke rolled to his feet. He stood in a pool of moonlight, Bobby Estrella’s gun sparkling as it rose in his right hand. Luke could see the gun’s reflections in his enemy’s eyes.

  He fired twice; once for each eye. The gun reacted beautifully. The action was smooth, barely any recoil. This time he did not miss.

  El Cid’s tall form collapsed and an unearthly howl pierced the air. Luke didn’t flinch. He had heard that sound once before, the time he had killed Timmy Red-Vein’s previous prospect.

  The Stranger chuckled and, though Luke could not see it, the moonlight illuminated a figure standing not far from El Cid’s body. Red-Vein was a tall, lanky man with an angry red scar that ran across his temple and ended at his eye, leaving the eyelid puckered and unable to shut completely. He pointed a crooked finger at the Stranger.

  “Next time it’ll be yours,” the legend promised and faded from view.

  The Stranger smiled grimly and looked at Luke. “You did well.”

  Luke was staring down at the gun that gleamed in his hand. “Go find my horse.”

  The Stranger grunted and disappeared.

  Luke spun the cylinder on the gun and removed the two spent cases, reloading them with bullets from his gun belt. He felt a burning in his left arm and knew that El Cid had cut him, possibly deep enough that he’d need to have it sewn up.

  It could wait, though. He still had full movement in the arm and that would do until this was finished. There were still five more Black Spots in town and they were likely at the schoolhouse waiting for El Cid’s return.

  Luke heard a muffled whimper and walked to the side of the next building where he saw the writhing form of the Black Spot that had survived his bullet to the face. It was a disfiguring wound. The bullet had shattered bone and torn flesh.

  He pointed Bobby’s Colt at the man, but for some reason he couldn’t pull the trigger. It seemed wrong to kill a defenseless man with this gun. No matter that he was a bandit or even that it would be a mercy. Frowning, Luke lowered the weapon and strode away.

  The Stranger led him to his mare. She hadn’t strayed far. He found her limping in circles, her eyes wide with pain. Luke eased up to her, whispering soothingly. Then, before she could pull away, he grasped the knife’s handle and pulled it free.

  She screamed and bucked and he had to calm her again. The blade was six inches long and had pierced her three inches deep. To his relief, though, the wound wasn’t bleeding profusely. The knife had missed any arteries. She, too, just needed some patching up.

  He led the horse as close to the schoolhouse as he dared, then tied her to a fence post. He began reloading his Smith and Wesson. “Stranger, what’s the situation?”

  “Two men posted out front. Three men inside covering the hostages.” The Specter took a deep draw of a lit cigar and let it out slowly. “It’s tense in there. They heard the gunfire. You’ll need to handle this carefully.”

  Luke snapped the gun shut and rolled his head on his shoulder, feeling a series of satisfying pops. “Good thing I still look like one of them. Listen, the moment you hear me fire, create a distraction.”

  The specter grunted and faded into mist.

  Luke took a deep breath and held both pistols out in the light, making a decision. Finally, he ran up the path to the school house, holding the bowler hat to his head with his left hand, Estrella’s gun clenched in his right. “Hey!”

  The men stationed outside the school’s front door had their guns trained on him, but lowered them slightly in recognition. He continued his approach, running past the large tree with its multiple rope swings that he and his friends had played on as children.

  One of the men called out to him as he neared their position, “What’re you doin’ here, Clyde? What’s goin’ on?”

  “It’s El Cid!” Luke exclaimed and fired twice. Estrella’s gun took both bandits down.

  Luke stopped next to the door, his back pressed against the wall as fearful voices echoed from inside. He forced himself to wait for the Stranger to do his part. Just three to go.

  A low growl came from inside. Men shouted and women screamed. Gun’s fired. Luke pulled the door open and ran in, his gun raised as his eyes took in the scene.

  The interior looked different than he remembered it. It was still one room, but at some point over the years, Jeremy had added onto the back, making the room much deeper. Still, it seemed small to him.

  The hostages were huddled in the front of the room, their forms lit by an oil lamp. Alberto and Jeremy lay on the floor, bound tightly next to two of Tom’s older brothers. The womenfolk sat on one of the long benches that had been moved up against the wall. Luke’s brief glance showed him bruised faces. Some of them were cut and bloodied. Jeremy’s right ear was missing.

  Two of the bandits were firing into a dark corner of the room wide-eyed as he entered. Luke gunned them down without thinking, his bullets piercing through flesh and organs as his eyes focused on the last remaining Black Spot. He couldn’t squeeze the trigger a third time.

  It was a woman. She had turned to look at him when he walked into the room and while her companions fell dying, her eyes locked onto his. Her eyes were brown and wide, her black spot a round tattoo on her cheek the size o
f a quarter.

  Taking advantage of his hesitation, the woman grabbed Luke’s mother off of the bench and pulled her up in front of her. The woman placed a gun against Rebecca’s head. “Abajo! Put it down!” she demanded, her voice heavily accented.

  The last time Luke had seen his mother had been just before the Red Star Gang had robbed the Bank of Puerta de la Muerte. It was the first time he had seen her since his bounty poster had been posted in town. Rebecca had scolded him, furious that her son had become an outlaw. She had demanded that he turn himself in and change his ways. He had walked out on her then, promising never to return. Now the look she gave him was blank; without recognition.

  “Put it down!” the female Black Spot said again, cocking the hammer of her gun.

  Luke lowered Bobby’s gun. He slowly placed it on the ground and raised his hands. He forced himself not to look at his mother. “Give yourself up,” he advised. “You’re the last one.”

  “Impossible!” she shouted. “Where’s Rodrigo?”

  Luke realized that she had to be El Cid’s girl. Maybe his wife. “He’s dead. Like I said, you’re the only one.”

  Her eyes widened, her lips trembling. She took her gun away from Rebecca’s head and pointed it at him. “Then you die.”

  “No! Don’t shoot, Teresa!” cried another female voice and Sandy’s mother stood. Her arms were bound in front of her, but her legs were free. Her right cheek was bruised, her supple lips bloody, but Elizabeth-Ann was still beautiful.

  “Darling, sit down!” Alberto begged.

  Elizabeth-Ann stepped towards the woman, her voice filled with firm compassion. “Stop this. Can’t you see? It’s over now. You’re free of that monster.”

  “Shut up!” the woman cried, swinging her gun towards Elizabeth-Ann. Her finger convulsed on the trigger.

  Luke’s mind went numb. He didn’t hear the shot. He saw only smoke rising from the barrel as Sandy’s mother stumbled backward, her mouth open in surprise.

  Luke found himself firing, his left arm drawing his gun seemingly of its own volition. The bullet scored his mother’s cheek on its way into the Black Spot woman’s skull.

  He pulled the bowler hat off of his head and walked down the center aisle in a dream-like trance, the short distance past the rows of children’s workbenches feeling like a mile. Sandy’s mother fell backwards over Jeremy and landed on her husband. Alberto was shouting frantically.

  Luke walked past his mother and stood over Elizabeth-Ann. It was a chest wound. Blood had blossomed over her right breast and was turning her blue dress crimson. Too much blood.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. Alberto and Jeremy called for him to untie them, but all Luke could do was look into her shocked eyes and apologize again.

  Her eyes focused on his and softened with kindness. Though everyone was speaking at once, her voice pierced through the haze in his mind. “Poor dear. It’s not your fault.”

  At that point, his mother pushed past him and began untying the men. Luke shook his head and knelt to help her, using his belt knife to cut through the rope. Rebecca then took the knife from his hands and moved to free the women.

  Luke watched as Albert, sobbing, pulled his wife into his arms. She touched his face tenderly and kissed him, then went still.

  “I’m sorry.” Luke stepped backward. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned.

  Jeremy Payne embraced him. Luke stood stiffly. His stepfather had never hugged him before, but all he could see was the ragged wound where Jeremy’s ear used to be. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  Then Luke’s mother was there. She thrust Luke’s knife back into the sheath at his belt. Rebecca’s face was oddly expressionless. “I should have known this would happen. I tried to raise you to be smart, to be a good Christian boy, but no. You have the Devil in you. Just like your father.”

  Luke’s mind went blank. He turned and walked back up the aisle. He didn’t remember picking up Bobby’s gun and stowing it in his shoulder holster. He didn’t remember walking down to retrieve his horse. The Stranger appeared next to him and said something, but Luke didn’t respond.

  He took off the dead Black Spot’s overcoat and used it to wipe his face, trying frantically to get the bootblack off. Sheriff Dale came up with his deputies. Luke didn’t know what he said to them, but they ran on towards the schoolhouse.

  He grabbed his horse’s reins and started walking. All Luke could see was Elizabeth-Ann’s dying face. All he could hear was his mother’s last words to him.

  The next thing Luke knew, he was standing in front of Hank’s Saloon. Shaking his head, he tethered his horse and retrieved a banded stack of bills from his saddlebags. He pushed his way through the swinging doors.

  Just as Sheriff Dale had said, the saloon had been wrecked. Several of Hank’s miss-matched tables had been smashed and chairs broken. Bullet holes peppered the ceiling and the front of the bar. The barman had been hard at work cleaning the mess. The broken furniture was piled on one side of the room and the floor had been swept.

  The few tables still in working condition had been cleaned off and a few chairs were occupied with townsfolk that had either been too brave to stay home or too drunk to care. Hank was standing behind the bar, cleaning up broken glass.

  Luke walked up to the counter and set the stack of cash down. “This is to pay for your damages, Hank.”

  The old barman spun around, his eyes wide. To Luke’s relief, he looked unharmed. “Luke, what are you doing here? Men are looking for you!”

  “No. I shot them all,” Like replied, slumping at the bar. His vision swam. “I need . . . I need . . .”

  “A doctor?” Hank said, his voice tinged with concern. “Your arm’s bloody. You look like hell.”

  “A drink.” Luke’s voice was thick. It was hard to get out the words. Tears welled in his eyes. “Elizabeth-Ann’s dead.”

  “Dear Lord,” the barman said, ashen faced. “The Black Spots?”

  Luke nodded, swallowing back a sob. “All gone.”

  The saloon doors swung open behind him and a man stepped in. Luke heard the click of a hammer being pulled back. “Listen, barman. I need a bottle of whiskey now!”

  Luke turned to see Marco standing there, a pistol in his hand. How had he forgotten him? He must have been the one watching Tom’s house. Luke had forgotten to kill him.

  Luke lurched away from the bar towards the man. Marco’s eyes widened in recognition and he fired. But Luke’s responses were too quick. He saw the Black Spot’s finger move around the trigger and twisted out of the way. The bullet flew past him and into the wall right next to Hank’s head.

  Before the man could fire again, Luke was on him. He wrenched the gun from Marco’s hand and pistol whipped him. The Black Spot stumbled and Luke kicked him, sending him sprawling into the pile of broken tables.

  Marco tried to stand up and Luke threw him back down. His eyes wild, he grabbed the man by the hair and slammed his face repeatedly into a tabletop. Then he drew Bobby’s gun from his shoulder holster and shoved the barrel up under Marco’s chin.

  His hand tensed up, but once again, he couldn’t pull the trigger. He realized that Hank was behind him, grabbing his shoulders. “Luke! Wake up! Listen! No killing here!”

  Luke paused, breathing heavily, and saw that Marco was unresisting and barely conscious. He let go of the man’s hair and turned Estrella’s gun over in his hand’s watching it sparkle. Suddenly Luke’s mind cleared. He knew what to do. He knew whose fault this really was.

  He put Bobby’s gun away and stood. “Sorry, Hank. Lost my mind for a minute, there.”

  He grabbed the front of Marco’s shirt and jerked him to his feet. “Listen up, Paco. I got a job for you. You go to Puerta Muerte and you tell Jeb Wickee what happened here tonight. Tell him that I am holding him responsible. Tell him that I am coming for him!”

  20: A Lifelong Confluence of Fickle Talents.

  An excerpt from the Tale of Tom Dunn

  “Fat lot o
f help you were when the mob showed up. This is what I get for depending on luck.” – Spoken by the famous gambler, Charles Cora, moments before being hung by the San Francisco Committee of Vigilance. May, 22 1856. Unseen by the assembled crowd below, the Kid hung next to his failed prospect for an hour in a semi-sarcastic show of solidarity.

  “Ow! Stop it, you ornery cuss!” Tom snapped, smacking the horse’s head.

  It went back to drinking from the small stream and Tom rubbed his shoulder, grumbling. He shifted around on the rock he was sitting on so that he no longer had his back to it. He was not fond of this horse. That was the fifth time the ungrateful thing had tried to bite him that day.

  “Who chooses a stallion for a mount, anyway?” he griped. He preferred a gelding. Uncut horses were notorious for bad attitudes.

  On the positive side, Tom hadn’t had to pay for him. The dead bounty hunter’s horse was a beautiful palomino quarter horse; strong and fleet of foot. He followed instruction, if reluctantly, but boy was he mean. Especially when they stopped to rest. His hand was still sore from a particularly stiff bite the horse had given him the night before.

  Tom took a bite of one of the dead man’s trail rations. It was a bar of dry oats and other grains held together with molasses. There had been two dozen of them in a bag tied to the man’s saddle and Tom had been living off of them over the past two days. They weren’t half bad. They were dry, but better than the hard rolls Tom usually bought for the road. Kind of hard to chew, though.

  He took a swig from his canteen to help the chewing process and went back to reading the stack of papers he had found in the bounty hunter’s saddlebags. He had been over them multiple times since leaving the hideout, but there wasn’t much else for him to do on the trail.

  Many of the papers were of a personal nature. The first time he had looked through them, Tom had been terrified that he would find evidence that the man had a wife and child, but to his relief there was no evidence of any. According to identification papers, the bounty hunter’s name had been Dean Edward Arbuckle Jr.