by B. S. Dunn
The irate Sheriff turned his fury towards the worried townsfolk, “When I find out which one of you helped that son of a bitch escape, I'll hang you on the scaffold next to him!”
“Make way, damn it, let me through.”
The crowd parted as an obese man of around fifty, dressed in black, forced his way through. His jowls wobbled and his cheeks flared as he puffed and panted from the exertion, “Where is he? Where is the killer that murdered my boy?”
“He's gone judge,” Jeb Coltrain informed his brother.
“What? Where? How...How can he be gone?” Zebulon Coltrain asked, his confusion evident, “Did you let him go? Shell said you had taken him prisoner.”
“No I didn't damn well let him go,” he hissed, “he escaped, and when I get to the bottom of it, he ain't goin' to be the only one swinging from a damn rope.”
“Where's my boy, Jeb?” the judge asked morosely.
The Sheriff pointed to where the body lay, “Over there Zeb.”
The judge staggered on leaden legs towards his son's prone body and sank to his knees, a solitary figure, alone in his grief. A low keening escaped his lips, and continued for ten minutes until he rose to his feet, his face a mask of rage, “I want him Jeb. I want that murdering bastard dead. Do you hear me? Dead! You form a posse right now and let's get after him.”
“Sure thing Zeb, sure thing,” the sheriff said quietly and held his brother's gaze, “Consider it done.”
Chapter 3
Two days later, Blackie Harbin and his gang rode into Four Trails Way station a little before noon. So named because of the stage trails that intersected there. The main trail ran from East to West, one from South-West terminated there, and the fourth trail ran due North. The way station sat on the West bank of the broad, fast flowing, Pine Tree River, and next to the rough pine log bridge that had been built in the station's early days of operation.
The country on the far side, rose sharply to the jagged mountains that formed the west wall of Pine Tree River Valley. The lower slopes were covered with Fir trees and ponderosa Pines, a smattering of other species mixed throughout, as well as large boulders shaped like giant marbles. The river, shallow at this point, had rocks which jutted above the surface amidst a roiling mass of white water.
The construction of the station was logs from the surrounding forest, hand tooled and slotted together. Mud was used to create a weather proof finish. The adjacent corral used the slimmer lodge pole pines, and a rough plank barn sat at the rear.
Animals grazed in the lush meadow that was spotted with small yellow wild flowers. In the station yard, a Concorde stage with a team of six horses in the traces, stood and waited. Emblazoned on the stage's side, in yellow writing was, North-West Stage Lines. Four men lay dead on the ground, flies buzzed around the bullet holes and fed on the not yet congealed blood.
Beside the stage stood a young woman, her sky blue dress crumpled from the journey. Next to her was a travelling salesman, who stood transfixed with his arms raised, his brow soaked in sweat. Fear coursed through him as he stared down the barrels of the four guns pointed at him.
He swallowed hard and stammered, “P...P...Please don't shoot me. I have a family. I won't say anything, I swear it.”
An outlaw smiled coldly, his blackened teeth showing, and said, “You're damn right there,” and took up the slack on the trigger and the hammer fell. His gun roared, the thunderous sound reverberated from the surrounding peaks. The salesman was thrown back as the .45 calibre bullet took him in the chest. He landed heavily in the dirt, twitched once and died.
The woman screamed, her brown eyes wide and filled with tears.
“Chris, take her inside. I'll work out what to do with her later.”
“Sure, Blackie,” Chris answered, with a hint of expectation of what was to come.
Blackie Harbin and his gang were the scourge of the North-West. Harbin was the worst. The outlaw was tall and thin, with shoulder length black hair, and brown, hate filled eyes, set in a square jawed face. He favoured a duster coat and denim pants, twin, pearl handled Colts strapped around his slim waist. He ran his gang with an iron fist and showed no mercy toward any man who questioned his decisions.
There were six outlaws in all. Harbin, Chris, Cato, Slate, Benny and Lone Wolf and each of them was wanted by the law.
Chris, at twenty-five, was five eight tall, had black hair and a solid build. His beady grey eyes were set deep in his tanned face.
Cato was thirty two and of similar build to Chris. He was wiry but had sandy hair and blue eyes.
Slate was a recent addition to Harbin's gang. He was twenty five and stood six feet in his socks. His hair and eyes were brown and his face was hawkish. Slate had been a petty criminal until he'd met the outlaw leader.
Benny was a baby faced killer. He was twenty one, slim built with blond hair and blue eyes. He dressed in black and wore twin Peacemakers. He was what the old hands called a wannabe.
That just left Lone Wolf , who was Crow Indian with all the Indian traits. He was tough and wiry and stood five ten. He was quiet, spoke only when spoken to, most of the time, but when riled, turned into an efficient killer.
As Chris dragged the young woman into the stage station by her long, black hair, Cato and Slate approached Blackie with the strong box they'd found under one of the Concorde's seats, “Here it is Blackie, they had it stashed away.”
“Take it inside, but shoot that damn lock off before you do,” the outlaw leader ordered.
The two men dropped the box on the hard packed earth with a dull thud. Cato drew his Colt and there was a triple click as he eared back the hammer. It was followed by the loud boom of the shot as he blew the lock off the heavy, iron-strapped strong box, then picked it up and carried it inside.
“Benny,” Harbin called out to the youngest one, “you and Lone Wolf keep watch, I don't want any surprises.”
“Sure Blackie, whatever you say.”
Harbin turned on his heel and followed the others inside.
*
Laramie Davis sat on his haunches under a tall ponderosa Pine, his broad back leant up against the rough bark of its trunk. Bo was ground hitched further back in the trees and remained out of sight.
He had watched the stage station for a good while and observed the sickening, cold blooded murder of the salesman, the woman dragged by her hair, and the heavy lock box go off in the same direction.
Laramie had become aware that he was riding into trouble when the pop-pop of gunshots reached him as he rode steadily along the trail. Those shots had killed the driver, the shotgun guard and an extra guard hired for the money transport.
When the shots had first rung out, Laramie eased Bo off the trail and into the surrounding stands of ponderosa. His nose filled with the scent of the pine as he climbed down from his Mexican saddle and crept forward to get a better view. One thing he'd learned in his forty-five years, was that you don't rush into a situation you know nothing about.
From his vantage point, he'd seen all he needed, to know what had happened and now there was a choice to make. Become involved, or ride far around and keep ahead of the posse that dogged his trail.
“Oh hell,” Laramie said as he stood up and stretched out the kinks, “We all gotta die some day.”
*
Ten miles to the East, in a patch of rocky ground off the main trail, a tall Blackfoot warrior looked down upon the lifeless bodies of his brother and brother's wife. The rage slowly built in Black Elk and a slight tremble was, for the moment, the only outward sign. Judging by the tracks, Lame Bear and Lost Dove had been ambushed by six men. His brother had been shot three times in an attempt to protect his wife. Lost Dove had not been so lucky. The beautiful young Indian woman, with flawless skin, had been abused by her killers until her torment was ended by a slash to her throat.
Black Elk walked methodically around the horrific scene, and studied all the sign. The afternoon sun beat down on his muscular frame as he bent on one knee and
gently touched the earth where Lost Dove's blood had seeped into the soil. He gathered some dirt, and rubbed it between his fingers. The pair had been killed early that morning he decided. Black Elk stood and wiped his fingers on his deerskin breeches, his eyes followed the trail of the long gone riders.
The time for grief would come later. Revenge was foremost in his mind as he began to gather up the bodies and return them to his camp. With a large group of his warriors, he would then hunt down these evil men and kill them very slowly.
*
Laramie rode in on the trail from the South-West. He swayed easily with the big appaloosa's gait as it picked the way along the trail. Bo had been given to him by a Cheyenne warrior some time back. Laramie had helped save him from a blood hungry group of settlers who'd sought the justice of lynch law. When asked what the crime was, the leader of the maddened group could only reason that he was, “Indian”.
As Laramie rode into the station yard, he found himself confronted by the Indian, Lone wolf and the baby faced killer, Benny. Both barred his way with raised Winchesters.
“Who are you Mister?” challenged Benny.
“Who wants to know?” Laramie asked belligerently.
“I do,” came Benny's short reply.
Laramie shrugged, “Just a stranger passin' through.”
Benny ran a careful eye over the gunfighter. He was unsure on what to do next. This man didn't look like a normal stranger passin' through.
“You fellers look like you've had some trouble here,” Laramie observed as he nodded at the bodies stretched out on the ground.
Benny smiled coldly, “Nothin' we couldn't handle.
Laramie's tone hardened when next he spoke, “How about you fellers get those saddle guns out of my face.”
Not one to take a backward step, Benny replied, “How about I just shoot you .”
“That's enough,” Harbin's voice was a harsh rasp, “don't you dimwit's know greatness when you see it?”
Benny spat in the dirt, “All I see is a bum on horse back.”
“This 'bum' as you called him,” Harbin informed Benny, “just happens to be Laramie Davis, the second fastest gun in the territory.”
“You'd be the fastest, Blackie?” asked Laramie.
Harbin smiled, “Of course.”
Laramie indicated the stiffening bodies on the ground, “I see you've been hard at work.”
Harbin shrugged nonchalantly, “One of the hazards of the job.”
“Let me shoot him Blackie,” Benny said gleefully.
“Shut your whinin', boy,” Harbin snarled, “take the man's horse and put it in the corral. When you've done that, get rid of those bodies before they start stinkin' up the place.”
Laramie climbed down and let Benny have his horse, “Treat him careful boy,” Laramie warned, “I'm kinda partial to that animal. I'd hate for anything to happen to him.”
Laramie turned his attention back to Harbin, “It's been a long time Blackie.”
“Sure has Laramie,” Harbin agreed, “You've changed some.”
“A little older,” Laramie allowed, “but, I see you ain't changed any.”
Harbin's eyes glittered wickedly, “Nope, I sure ain't. So you'd best remember that.”
Laramie let the open challenge go and nodded in acknowledgement.
“Anyway,” Harbin eased the tension in the air, “Chris is cookin' some grub. Maybe you're hungry.”
The two men walked into the station. Laramie let his eyes adjust to the lower light and with a gaze that had kept him alive this long, took in everything before him.
The main room was a large, open area that held timber dining tables and chairs. A small bar was built against the far wall and a large fireplace, surrounded by wooden panels, would fill the room with sufficient heat to ward off the chill of the cold winters that occurred here in the mountains. There were four doors that lead off the main area, and all were closed. Laramie guessed three were rooms while the fourth would be, hopefully, a back way out. Hidden away in a corner, was a large wood stove, where a man stood and cooked.
At a table with a check table cloth, sat two other men. They each had a shot glass of whiskey in front of them, and both men stared at Laramie.
Recognition flared in the face of one, “Ahh shoot, howdy Laramie.”
“Howdy Slate, what are you doin' ridin' with this pack of no goods?” Laramie inquired. The last he knew of Slate was that he had settled down from his petty outlaw days, and gone back to earning an honest living.
“Yeah, well,” Slate shrugged, “the whole workin' hard for a livin' didn't work out. You know how it is. What are you doin' around here?”
“Headin' for Canada,” Laramie answered honestly.
“Are things getting' too hot for you? The great Laramie Davis,” Harbin's sarcasm hung heavily in the air.
“I shot a Sheriff's deputy,” Laramie reluctantly explained, “It was self defence but his father was the local judge and the family was set on hangin' me.”
Unable to contain his amusement, Blackie Harbin laughed out loud. It sounded more like a donkey braying than anything human, “Well, well, welcome to the other side.”
The seriousness of the situation penetrated Harbin's brief moment of happiness and a darkness fell across his face, “Son of a...Did you bring a God damned posse down on us Laramie?” Harbin exploded, “If you have I'll kill you right now!”
“Calm down,” said Laramie reassuringly, and he tried to ease the tension that had developed with his admission, “I lost the posse yesterday.”
Blackie eased his hand away from the butt of the Colt on his left side, “Just as well.”
One of the closed doors squeaked open, and through it walked the woman from the stage. She had changed her clothes. The blue dress had gone and had been replaced by denim pants and a man's cotton shirt, which was tucked in and accentuated the curves of her slim body. She walked silently and swiftly to a vacant table, as far removed from the others as she could get.
“Food's ready,” Chris called from over by the stove.
It was the first time that Laramie had noticed the aroma which drifted across the room, and he thought to himself that it smelled pretty good.
“About time,” Harbin said.
Laramie watched as the outlaws grabbed tin plates and slopped stew onto them. He looked across at the woman and noticed that she hadn't moved. She showed no indication that the call for food even reached her.
“Are you eatin' or what Mister Legend?” Chris asked from beside the stove.
Laramie nodded and grabbed two tin plates and held them out for the outlaw to fill. He filled the first plate but left the second empty and challenged Laramie with a stare.
“Fill it,” Laramie said flatly.
“You only need one,” Chris pointed out and remained unmoved.
“It's for the lady. Now fill it,” Laramie said and gave Chris a withering stare.
The outlaw shrugged and filled the plate, and in the process slopped a little of the hot food on Laramie's hand, “Sorry,” he apologised, “Missed it.”
Laramie let it go, found two relatively clean forks, and turned away from the grinning outlaw. He took both plates to where the woman was seated and sat down. He nudged one of the plates towards her with a fork.
She looked Laramie squarely in the eye and said with open hostility, “I'm not hungry.”
“You best eat Miss, you'll probably be needin' it,” Laramie said softly.
Frustrated, the woman said, “I told you, I'm not hungry.”
“Is our company not good enough for you, Mister Legend?” It was Benny. He'd come inside from his chores, having buried the dead, sat at a table with the others, and wolfed down his stew.
Laramie ignored the barb Benny threw at him and continued to eat his surprisingly tasty stew.
“Didn't you hear me Legend?” Benny asked around a mouthful of his meal, “Ain't we good enough for the likes of you. Or maybe us big, bad outlaws scare the pants o
ff you.”
Laramie lifted his gaze to the woman who sat across from him. Her worried expression pleaded with him not to start anything. He nodded almost imperceptibly and it was enough to relieve some of her tension.
Benny couldn't help himself and continued to push, “You know what fellers? I think this old has been is yeller!”
Every person in the Four Trails way station put down their forks, except for Laramie. The others waited for the gunman to stand and take up the kid's challenge. Instead, Laramie said coolly, “Blackie, you'd best tell that young pup to back off before his mouth digs his grave.”
“Why you...” Benny lunged to his feet. His chair skidded back and fell as he clawed at one of his Peacemakers. As he drew, a shot thundered, the sound loud and deafening as it bounced off the timber walls. Benny's gun tumbled to the floor and he grabbed at the bloody furrow, the bullet from Harbin's Colt had gouged out.
“If I want him dead boy, I'll do the shootin',” Blackie Harbin growled in a low voice, as he held a smoking gun, “not you. Just you keep that in mind.”
“Damn Blackie, you shot me,” Benny whined
“The next time I shoot you will be for keeps.”
The woman sat horrified as she watched Laramie casually continue to eat his stew.
No one saw that Slate had drawn his gun under the table, and had it pointed in Benny's direction.
After Harbin slid his gun back into its well oiled holster, he leaned close to the table and spoke quietly, “You boys keep an eye on him. He's up to somethin'. I know it and before we leave here tomorrow I want him dead.”
“You best eat up Miss, before your meal goes cold,” Laramie said, and calmly showed no outward sign of concern for the situation.