by B. S. Dunn
B. S. Dunn
High Valley Manhunt
Laramie Davies #1
BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
81669 Munich
High Valley Manhunt
LARAMIE DAVIS
Book 1
by B. S. Dunn
This book has 149 paperback pages.
All Laramie Davis wanted was a hot meal. What he got was a plate full of trouble. It started with the killing of a Deputy Sheriff in Rock Springs and went down hill from there. Laramie tangled with outlaws, blood hungry Indians and a murderous posse led by a family of killers. Before it was over, many men would die.
Copyright
A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of Alfred Bekker
© by Author / Cover by Edition Bärenklau / Steve Mayer camrocker/Shotshop, 2016
© this issue 2016 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westfalen in arrangement with Edition Bärenklau, edited by Jörg Martin Munsonius.
All rights reserved.
www.AlfredBekker.de
[email protected]
This one is for Jacob, who always asks, “And then what happened?”
Chapter 1
“What do you think Bo?” Laramie Davis asked his big appaloosa Stud, “Does it look like a good place to get a nice, hot meal?”
The board said Rock Springs. Population 942 but by the look of the sign and its crossed out numbers, it was obvious that the population was on the decline. Nestled at the foot of a snowcapped mountain range that towered overhead, the town was surrounded by low ridges, topped with ponderosa pine and douglas Fir, that ran the length of the spacious valley. Laramie cast his gaze over the vast tracts of grazing land dissected by cottonwood lined creeks, with clear waters, fed by the slow ice melt from above.
Bo stood silently, and flicked his dark tail at an annoying fly. The big horse's front half was a chocolate colour that became dappled on his hind quarters.
“Yeah,” said Laramie in answer for his horse, “let's go find out.”
As the afternoon sun sank lower in the cloudless sky, Laramie urged Bo forward with pressure from his left knee. In response, the animal started forward, on the deeply rutted trail as it wound down the slope, and ran them straight into trouble.
*
Inquisitive townsfolk stopped to stare at the stranger who rode his fine chocolate coloured appaloosa along main street. The man, they guessed was maybe forty five, of solid build and a touch over six feet tall. He had brown hair to match his eyes and his face was tanned and weathered, witness to the long trails he'd ridden over the years. He wore dark jeans, a red shirt and a dark vest under a buckskin coat. His saddle boot held a Winchester rifle, 1876 model, but what drew their attention, were the twin Remington six-shooters holstered on his slim waist. The weapons indicated to all around him, that the stranger was a gunfighter.
As he proceeded down the street, he rocked easily with the smooth gait of the appaloosa, aware of the attention he attracted. Experience had taught him that strangers in some towns had problems, especially in his profession. Gunmen attracted trouble like a moth to a flame.
The town, like many others Laramie passed through, had false shop fronts which lined the dusty street. There was a bank, post office, stage and freight company, dry goods store and a few cafes. A hotel sat between the cattleman's association building and the Red Eye Saloon. With a slight nudge, Bo changed direction and walked up to the timber hitch rail outside the bustling saloon.
Laramie swung down out of the saddle and looped the reins over the rail. He stretched then slapped the built up trail dust from his clothes. From habit, he adjusted his gun belt and flipped the rawhide loops off the hammer of the Remingtons. No such thing as too careful he thought, with death only a bullet away. His right hand on the polished walnut butt of one Remington, Laramie climbed the scarred wooden steps and eased his way into the saloon.
The bar room covered a large, well lit area that included a section set up with a roulette wheel and felt-covered poker tables.
The afternoon crowd was of a reasonable size and the noise was at a medium level. Voices grew louder as liquor consumption increased. Raucous laughter cut across the room, followed by the shrill screech of a whore's indignity. Laramie looked left and right as he moved further in. The sound of breaking glass was quickly followed by a savage curse. Wooden chair legs scraped the timber floor as two men lurched to their feet, only to be restrained by friends. Faced with a possible threat, Laramie had half drawn the Remington, but now eased it back into its well oiled holster.
He sidled up to a long, Mahogany bar with a brass foot rail and polished counter top. The red headed barkeep was busy with a ranch hand when he saw Laramie and gave him a nod, “I'll be with you in a minute,” he called above the din.
Laramie lifted a hand in acknowledgement. He watched the barman finish with his customer then make his way along the bar towards him, “What can I get you stranger?” he asked, jovially.
“Beer,” said Laramie.
The barkeep smiled warmly, “Sure, beer comin' up,” and he walked off, found a mug, filled it and brought the large, foam covered beer back to place it in front of the gunfighter. Laramie tossed a dollar onto the counter top but the barkeep pushed it back, “First one is on the house.”
Laramie nodded, “Obliged.”
Laramie looked around the room then asked, “Do you serve meals in here?”
“Sure do,” the barkeep answered, “What would you like?”
“What have you got?”
“How about I get the cook to run you out a rump steak with all the trimmin's. You can follow that up with a piece of pie.”
Laramie's stomach growled at the prospect, “Sounds great. I have a horse outside at the rail that needs takin' care of before I eat.”
The barman nodded that he understood, “Sure, sure. I'll have your meal waitin' when you return. The livery is just down the street aways. Tell the feller that runs it that Charlie sent you and he'll set you right. Say I didn't get your name.”
“It's Laramie Davis,” Laramie said softly.
A small spark of recognition flickered in the barkeeps eyes, “Glad to know you Mister Davis, like I said, your meal will be waitin' on your return.
He finished his beer, wiped foam from his top lip and walked outside to where the big appaloosa awaited his owner. Laramie unwound the reins, then led Bo along the street to the livery stable. When he mentioned Charlie, the hostler seemed eager to help and was quite friendly. The straw filled stall for the night set him back two dollars, which included feed. Laramie passed him three and asked the man to have Bo ready for the trail early in the morning.
*
When he returned to the Red Eye Saloon, Charlie was true to his word and Laramie’s meal waited for him. The plate was piled high with steak, potatoes, bacon, beans and topped with thick gravy.
“Find yourself a table Mister Davis and I'll bring you out another beer, or perhaps you'd prefer a pot of coffee?” Charlie inquired.
“Beer will be fine , thanks Charlie. The meal looks mighty fine too.”
Charlie leaned in close and spoke softly, “If you say anything' I'll deny it but, my wife is the best damn cook in Montana.”
“I'll keep it under my hat,” Laramie smiled.
“You do that. Now go and find that table and I'll be right out.”
Laramie found a corner table from which he could watch the comings and goings through the batwings. Old habits he thought.
Charlie was right about his wife being a great cook. The food was the best he'd eaten in a long while and he considered the possibility of an extra night. The ste
ak was tender and the juices ran when he cut it. The potatoes tasted great, the bacon was crisp and the gravy was something else. When the apple pie came, and there were no words to describe how good it was. When Laramie paid for his meal, he slipped Charlie an extra two dollars.
He ordered a pot of coffee and sat back at his table. While he waited, a young man entered the saloon and walked up to the bar. He was of average height and build, had sandy coloured hair and wore black jeans and a blue shirt. His face appeared almost childlike with its fair skin. He seemed far too young to wear a tied down Colt at his right thigh. Laramie turned his attention to the badge pinned to the kid's breast pocket. Something told him that the kid was trouble and he was right.
The kid called Charlie over and the two talked briefly before the young man turned to look in Laramie's direction. He adjusted his gun rig and weaved his way through the crowd to Laramie's table. Without an invitation, he sat down.
“Charlie tells me your name is Davis. My name is Jeremiah Coltrain. Deputy Jeremiah Coltrain,” he said and tapped the shiny, nickel plated badge.
Laramie studied him silently for a moment, then asked warily, “What can I do for you deputy?”
“Do you own that big appaloosa stud down at the livery?” Coltrain asked.
Laramie nodded, “I do.”
A broad smile split Coltrain's face, “Great. How much do you want for him?”
Laramie was confused. He glanced towards the bar and saw Charlie with a concerned expression on his face, “Are you telling me you want to buy my horse?”
The young man shook his head, “No, I'm telling you I'm goin' to buy your horse.”
“Bo's not for sale Mister Coltrain.”
Coltrain laughed out loud, “Everything is for sale at the right price Davis.”
“Not Bo. You don't have enough money, and even if you did I still wouldn't sell him.”
The glint of happiness left the young man's eyes and was replaced with a darkness that immediately put Laramie on edge. With a forced smile Coltrain said, “I'm tryin' to be right polite about the sale I want to make Davis, but you ain't makin' it very easy. Now how things actually work around here is that I say I want to buy your horse and you say yes. Do you understand?”
Laramie stole another glance at Charlie who now sweated bullets. It was obvious that Coltrain had some sort of pull in town and Laramie guessed that he used the deputy's badge to wield it. As Laramie had been around for a long time, he would not be pushed by a punk kid. His voice held menace as he quietly said, “Kid I already told you, Bo is not for sale. I strongly suggest that you get up and walk out of this saloon and let me finish my coffee.”
Coltrain's voice rose sharply as he leapt to his feet and knocked his chair backwards, “Do you know who I am? What the name Coltrain means in this town?”
Laramie was aware of the sudden, heavy silence that descended in the Red Eye. Men closest to his table rose and moved away, “No, kid I don't know you from Adam, but I do know this. If you are thinkin' on pullin' that Colt your hand is restin' on I'd reconsider, because in the time it took for you to stand up I pulled and cocked one of my Remingtons. Right at this moment it's under this table pointed your way.”
Jeremiah Coltrain snorted derisively, “You're bluffin' Davis.”
Laramie's voice remained calm, “Are you willin' to die to find out?”
Coltrain stood still, uncertainty clouded his eyes. Laramie's words shook him some and he tried to figure out what to do next. In an attempt to salvage some dignity he said stubbornly, “I still mean to have that horse,” and with that , turned and stalked from the saloon.
Laramie watched the kid go and once through the bat wing doors, the noise level rose as everybody breathed a sigh of relief, but the look in the kid's eyes let him know that this wasn't over. Laramie eased the hammer down on the Remington and holstered it.
Twenty minutes later, the frantic hostler burst into the saloon and looked around until he found Laramie. He rushed up to the table and blurted out, “Mister Davis you'd best come quick. Jeremiah Coltrain is at your horse. He means to take him.”
“Damn fool kid,” Laramie cursed as he lurched to his feet and ran out of the saloon.
Chapter 2
When Laramie arrived at the livery stable, Coltrain had Bo outside the large timber framed doors, in an attempt to saddle him. Bo had other ideas. The appaloosa was a one man horse and there was no way in hell he would let Jeremiah Coltrain ride him.
“Stand down Coltrain,” Laramie's voice sounded like a whip crack in the night, “Let the horse go. I told you I wasn't sellin' him so if you let him go right now, you just might get away with the mistake of attempted horse stealing.”
Although the sun had gone down, the illumination of the lamp light from in the stables showed the bewilderment on Jeremiah Coltrain's face, “You still don't get it do you? We run this town. The Coltrain's run Rock Springs. What we say goes and when I tell you I want this horse I mean that I will have him. I offered you payment, but since you refused, I will just take him. Am I getting' through to you yet?”
A crowd had gathered nearby and watched events unfold. Laramie had lost all patience with the kid and demanded, “I said let him go!”
Coltrain smiled and said coldly, “Come and get him.”
Laramie moved like lightning. His left hand took hold of Bo's reins while his right hand made a fist and snaked out with unbelievable speed, and caught Coltrain flush on the jaw. The kid cried out, released the reins, and fell backward to the hard packed earth. He lay there stunned, shook his head and tried to clear the cobwebs. When he wiped at the corner of his mouth, his hand came away red with blood.
“Damn you, you'll pay for that!” Coltrain snarled.
The deputy sheriff's hand flashed towards his holstered Colt. It had just cleared leather when Laramie's twin Remingtons roared. Both shots punched into the kid's chest and killed him instantly. Laramie stood for a moment and looked at the young man he had just shot. It was senseless. A spoilt brat used to getting his own way, and now it had gotten him killed.
Laramie became aware of the man who stood beside him, “Damn fool kid,” he muttered.
“That may be Mister Davis,” Charlie the barkeep agreed, “but you need to get gone from here now.”
“Why? It was self defence. And the kid was tryin' to steal my horse.”
“Maybe so,” Charlie agreed again, “But that boy's father is the town Judge, his uncle is the town sheriff and his brother is a deputy. If you stay here they will certainly hang you before mornin'.”
A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd and Charlie called out, “ Chip get the man's saddle and put it on his horse.”
The hostler ducked inside the stables and returned with Laramie's saddle and Winchester, then immediately began to saddle the horse. Once finished, Laramie climbed up and turned to leave when a new voice cut through the noise of the crowd, “Hold it right there Mister.”
Laramie turned slightly in the saddle. In front of him stood the sheriff of Rock Springs, and in his fist was a Colt .45.
“Hey, Uncle Jeb, it's Jeremiah,” Shell Coltrain gasped as he rushed forward.
Jebediah Coltrain gave no indication that he'd heard what Shell had said. “Who are you Mister?”
Laramie studied the man who stood in the false light of the stable's lanterns. Jebediah Coltrain was in his late forties and was a little under six feet tall. He had a solid build and greying hair, cold eyes and was dressed in denim pants, blue shirt and a calf skin vest.
“My name is Laramie Davis,” Laramie answered.
“The gunfighter?” the sheriff asked.
Laramie nodded.
“Uncle Jeb, Jeremiah's dead. The damn son of a bitch killed him. Shot him twice in the chest.”
“Looks like we're goin' to have us a hangin' in town,” Jeb Coltrain said without emotion.
A cold chill touched Laramie's spine as he explained, “The kid was tryin' to steal my horse. When I tried t
o stop him he went for his gun. It was a clear case of self defence Sheriff.”
“The stranger speaks the truth, Sheriff,” Charlie the bar keep said and backed Laramie's story, “young Jeremiah wanted his appaloosa somethin' fierce and when the stranger said no, he tried to take it anyway. We were all here. Davis had no choice, Jeremiah would have shot him down.”
“Shut your yap bar keep,” snapped Shell Coltrain savagely, “he murdered my brother and for that he is goin' to pay with his life. An eye for an eye, right Uncle Jeb?”
The Sheriff nodded, “I reckon so Shell. You best run along and let your father know about Jeremiah. I'll take care of this.”
Shell paused in the yellow light for a moment where Laramie could see him properly. He looked a lot like his dead brother, sandy hair, average build, maybe a little taller but he wore tailored clothes and held a Spencer carbine.
“Are you sure you don't want me to stick around?”
“Just go tell your Pa,” Jeb Coltrain snapped.
Laramie watched the young Deputy leave then turned his attention back to the older Coltrain, “You're makin' a big mistake Sheriff.”
“The only mistake was made by you Davis, when you stopped in Rock Springs,” the Sheriff pointed out, “now, are you goin' to climb down off that horse. or do I have to shoot you out of the saddle?”
Unnoticed by anyone, Charlie had slipped away from the crowd and stood by a stack of wooden crates. He pushed purposefully with his left hand which caused the crates to tumble, and as they hit the ground, several splintered.
The crash was a welcome distraction for Laramie as it caused the Sheriff's gaze to seek out the source of the disturbance. Laramie gave Bo a solid kick and the big horse leapt forward, his deep chest cannoned into the Sheriff and knocked him from his feet. With a loud curse, Jeb Coltrain, although stunned, came to his feet and tried to line up his Colt with the fleeing rider's back as he escaped into the night. He fired three wild shots but missed with all, as the gunfighter rode low over the appaloosa's neck. Jeb Coltrain managed to get another shot off before horse and rider disappeared.