by B. S. Dunn
“Who are you?” The woman finally asked, overcoming her shock.
“The name's Laramie Davis, Miss,” he answered her question.
She mulled his name over in her mind for a moment before realisation finally came, “I know your name,” she gasped, “You're that Gunman, that killer.”
“Some have called me that,” he allowed, “others a lot worse.”
She was amazed he could talk like that, like it didn't matter, “You are no better than they are.”
For some reason the barb from the woman stung, but he did not let it show. She obviously didn't realise that he was able to help her, “Miss the way I see it, you have two choices. You can stay with these outlaws who will eventually kill you, after they've had their fun,” he paused for a moment and let his words sink in, “or you can trust me and maybe we will both get out of this alive. Just remember this before you decide. I rode in here because I saw what happened to those men they murdered. I could have ridden on, but I didn't.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Seems to me you don't have much choice, Miss.”
The young lady sighed resignedly, “If I'm to put my life in your hands, you may as well know my name. It's Sally Richards.”
Laramie smiled warmly, “So, where are you from Sally Richards?”
“Mountain Pass,”
“Say, you're Pa wouldn't be Hank Richards would it?” Laramie asked, surprised.
“Yes it is,” Sally confirmed.
“Is he still town Sheriff?”
“Yes, but how did you know that?” Sally asked, a confused look on her face.
“The old days Miss. We rode together some before he decided to settle down and take good care of his family,” Laramie explained.
Sally looked indignant, “My father was a United States Marshal, not some common gunman.”
“Yes Miss, he was,” Laramie agreed, “so was I.”
“You were a Marshal?” Sally asked in disbelief.
“Sure was,” Laramie confirmed.
“I'll vouch for that Miss,” neither one of them had noticed Slate approach the table, “then he added quickly, “I need to talk to you later Laramie. Outside, after dark.”
Laramie didn't answer, but gave a slight incline of his head. Slate moved on and left Laramie to ponder on his words.
Silence descended over the table.
Chapter 4
The afternoon progressed to early evening. The sun dropped behind the mountains and day slowly turned into night. Stars sparkled like diamonds in the sky and the large moon cast its silvery glow over the landscape, and thus kept the night from total darkness.
Inside the way station, all of the outlaws lounged around, except for Benny. He sat on a chair, a scowl on his face directed at Laramie. The gunman knew the time would come that he would have to kill the kid. He just didn't know when the move would be made.
After the evening meal of leftover stew, Laramie excused himself from the table he sat at with Sally and walked towards the door which led outside. The audible triple click of a gun hammer being thumbed back sounded loud in the confines of the station house, “Where do you think you're goin' Laramie?”
The gunfighter froze, then turned and faced Harbin, “I'm goin' to check on my horse.”
Harbin shook his head, “Nope. You stay right here. Benny put it in the corral, it's fine.”
“If you're worried about me runnin' off, why don't you send a man along to keep me company. Besides when I leave here, I'm takin' the lady with me.”
“That's mighty big talk for a man faced with six guns,” Harbin pointed out.
“Maybe so,” Laramie agreed, “but I have two six-guns, each with six shots. That's twelve bullets. Now I probably won't get all six of you but that won't worry you none, because you'll be dead first.”
Laramie's hands edged closer to his Remingtons, “You decide Blackie, but make it quick, I ain't got all day.”
Tension in the room built and Harbin licked his lips. The outlaw's gun was out and cocked but Laramie's calmness in the face of death, had unnerved him.
“I'll go and keep an eye on him Blackie,” Slate's voice broke the tension.
It was the out Harbin needed, and he eased down the hammer on his gun, “Fine Slate, you go. But don't be out there too long.”
“No problem,” Slate said and followed Laramie out the door.
Outside the clear night air had a crisp feel about it and pricked the exposed skin of both men. Once they were away from the building, Slate said in bewilderment, “damn Laramie, were you tryin' to get yourself killed in there.”
“Don't worry none about that,” the gunfighter said and looked about to see if they were alone, “what did you want to talk to me about?”
Slate sighed and informed him, “They're goin' to kill you before they leave tomorrow.”
“Why are you tellin' me this?” Laramie enquired.
“I'm thinkin' if I help you, you can help me.” Slate explained a little.
Laramie's interest was piqued, “How do I get to help you.”
“ I need to get away from Harbin,” he said, “The man is crazy. He just kills and kills and he don't stop. You ever seen the look in his eye when he does it? He enjoys it. Most of them do. That damn Benny, I swear he's Harbin's kid. He gets the same look. I just gotta get away from 'em Laramie.”
Laramie listened in silence and thought before he answered. He looked at Slate and saw the pleading in his eyes and realised that he may come in handy when it was time, “Alright Slate we'll do it your way.”
Slate's relief was obvious as his face came to life, “Your best opportunity to escape will be tonight while I'm on watch. If you can get out, I'll have horses ready and we'll be gone well and truly before they wake up.”
“Make sure you are ready,” Laramie said seriously, “because if Blackie and his boys wake up, we'll need to shoot our way out.”
“Don't worry, we'll be ready.”
Laramie checked on Bo, and the appaloosa crossed to him and nuzzled his hand as he held it out to rub the horse's nose, “Hang in there big feller, it won't be long now. We'll be gone come mornin' and I'll be needin' everythin' you have.”
*
Amongst the cedar and cottonwoods, beside a fast flowing creek, the posse had made camp for the night. In the wilderness surrounding their camp, a Grey Wolf's low, mournful howl made the horses fidget nervously at their tethers.
“Whoa, horses,” soothed Orson Blake, “he's just callin' to his friends. He don't want to eat you tonight. Might take a chunk out of old Grover over there though.”
“That ain't funny Orson,” grouched Grover Yates, the oldest man in the posse, “I heard tell about a bunch of trappers once, camped up in these mountains. They left a feller on watch one night and when they woke up the next mornin' he was gone. All they found was a bunch of wolf tracks and his old Hawken rifle.”
Orson Blake laughed at the old store owner, “And you actually believe that story Grover?”
“It's a true story Orson, it was told to me by one of them mountain men personally,” Grover said, indignant that Orson would make fun of the tale.
Jebediah Coltrain stalked out of the darkness and stopped in front of the two posse men, “When you two are finished with your bed time stories, you might want to keep watch. We ain't the only ones out here you know, or did you forget the Indian pony tracks we came across this afternoon?”
“Sure thing sheriff,” mumbled Orson Blake, “we'll get right back to it.”
“And damned well stay awake. I don't want to be wakin' up in the middle of the night with some savage redskin standin' over me holdin' my hair in his hand.” Coltrain ordered.
Jeb left them to it and strode back into camp where the rest of the posse were camped out. There were seven men who formed the Judge's vengeance posse; not all of them willing. There was the Judge, Jeb Coltrain, Shell Coltrain and Jim Clancy. Orson Blake and Grover Yates were on watch, while the seventh man, Cl
ay Adams, stirred the fire under the coffee pot.
“Don't go makin' that fire too big Clay,” cautioned Jeb Coltrain, “Don't want to be givin' away our position to any of them redskins floatin' around out there.”
Clay grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it on the orange flames to damp them down some. He was a thin, young cow hand from one of the ranches that surrounded Rock Springs. He happened to be in the wrong place at the right time and got pushed into a posse against his will. He wasn't alone. Grover and Orson were in the same boat.
Jim Clancy, on the other hand, was a gunman. He was tall and willowy, was in his early thirties, and wore his dark hair collar length. His grey eyes moved constantly. He worked for the Coltrains when they paid him for it. He wasn't fussy, especially when the price was right.
“What was that you said?” Zeb Coltrain asked his brother, “Did you see more Indian sign out there?”
The Sheriff shook his head, “Nope, didn't see a thing, except two no good greenhorns lookin' the wrong damned way. Don't mean they ain't out there though.”
“So is that filthy murderer who killed my boy,” snapped the Judge.
“We'll pick up his trail tomorrow Zeb. We know he's headin' towards the border,” the sheriff spoke matter of factly.
The judge struggled to his feet and looked his brother hard in the eyes, his flabby jowls quivered with pent up rage, “I don't care if the killer gets across the damn border into Canada. We will not stop until he is dead. Do you understand?”
The Judge looked around the group and lay down the challenge, “Do you all understand? When you rode out of Rock Springs you signed on until the end,” he reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out his imported Webley Bulldog pocket revolver, “I will damn well shoot any man who tries to back out!”
“Ease up Judge,” Jeb cautioned, “no man's backin' out. You keep that up and we'll be buryin' you next.”
The big man put his gun away and sat down, “Just you make sure they don't”
“We'll ride to Four Trails swing station tomorrow Judge,” Jeb explained to his brother, “He'll have to ride through there to get to the border. Besides, he can't hide forever. That damn horse of his is a dead give away. We should reach there sometime in the morning, of course that depends on how much them damn townsfolk slow us down.”
Judge Zebulon Coltrain gave no indication that he'd heard his brother's last words. He just sat and stared at the orange flames of the camp fire as it flickered in the dark and licked hungrily at the small branches that fed its being. The fire would slowly devour the wood just as the burning hatred in the Judge would eventually consume him.
*
One by one, the outlaws at Four Trails fell into a deep slumber, helped along by the contents of three bottles of whiskey from behind the bar. Laramie watched them intently from under the brim of his dark coloured Stetson as they dropped off.
It was almost midnight, and Lone Wolf and Slate had been on watch for three hours. At one point, Laramie had thought that not all the outlaws would give in to the peaceful murmurings of sleep.
The sandy headed Cato was the last to succumb and it wasn't long before his soft snore joined the chorus of the others.
With a small sigh of relief, Laramie eased his feet from the chair they rested on and slowly tilted the Stetson back so he could see more clearly in the low glow of the lantern light. He sat up and cautiously looked for any indication that the outlaws were aware of his movements.
None of them stirred, so Laramie, careful to make no noise, stood up and waited before he moved. Stealthily he crept towards the door which Sally waited behind nervously.
Laramie tried the handle and it turned easily. He pushed the door open and slipped through the narrow gap. He closed the door and the latch clicked shut. He heard Sally expel an anxious breath.
“Thank God it's you Laramie,” she whispered, “I was beginning to think you weren't coming.”
Laramie placed a hand on her arm to quiet her, “When we leave, the only way to go is through that main area where the outlaws are sleeping. Try to be as quiet as possible. If anything goes bad, run out the door and don't look back. Slate will get you away from here.”
“What about you?” The concern was clear in her hushed tone.
“Don't worry about me. Slate will have horses ready. You get on one and don't stop until you are well clear of here. He will take you to your father.”
“Okay.”
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sally answered apprehensively.
Laramie's voice grew grim, “Follow me.”
He stood before the door and took a deep breath, then dropped his hand to one of his Remingtons, drew it from its holster, and thumbed back the hammer. It was hard to tell which was louder, the triple click of the gun, or the sound of his breath, as both seemed thunderous in the darkness.
Laramie levelled his hand gun and once more opened the door. It gave a slight squeak and to his ears, it sounded like someone had dropped an armful of pots and pans on the floor. He froze when one of the outlaws stirred, Cato he thought, or maybe Chris. He waited uneasily for whom ever it was, to return to sleep. He eased forward through the doorway and out into the main room of the way station. Sally was close behind, and he prayed silently under his breath that nothing would happen to endanger her life.
They reached the halfway point of the room, Laramie now acutely aware of any changes in the outlaw's breathing patterns. Benny snorted, moaned and mumbled something incoherent. There was a small gasp from Sally, and the gunfighter hoped she could hold her nerve. He watched as Benny rolled over, then continued his soft snores.
The pair moved on and finally reached the door that lead outside. Laramie's hand touched the door handle and paused before he turned it. The handle turned silently and he eased the door open with a grimace. No alarm was sounded.
With his arm around Sally, the gunfighter guided her through the door first, then followed, and shut it gently behind them.
Laramie belatedly remembered something that caused a small flash of alarm in him. Lone Wolf , the Crow Indian, was on watch, somewhere out there in the darkness. He hoped like hell that Slate had managed to take care of him.
*
Slate had indeed taken care of the Indian and Lone Wolf was now laid out and trussed in the barn behind the corral. He saddled the horses they would need for their flight,and settled in to wait for Laramie and the woman.
After what seemed an eternal wait, and the hope that none of the other outlaws or even Blackie himself would emerge, Slate started to lose hope and thought seriously about making a run for it. He figured he'd ride east, far away from where he was now, and far away from any living soul who knew him.
Two figures moved past the corral towards the barn. Slate tensed for a moment and then realised it was Laramie and the woman.
“About time you two turned up,” Slate said softly, relief evident, “I was gettin' set to ride without you. Didn't think you were comin'”
“It took your friends in there a while to get to sleep,” Laramie explained, “Where is Lone Wolf?”
“I have him tucked away in the barn. He won't be getting' free any time soon.”
The gunfighter nodded, “Good. Right then, let's put some distance between us and here before the others wake up and work out somethin' is wrong.”
Slate had the horses ready behind the barn. Bo gave a low nicker when Laramie neared and the gunfighter gave the big horse a reassuring rub on his muscular neck.
“I hope they don't wake up while we're riding out of here,” Sally voiced her concerns.
“We'll lead the horses until we're out of earshot, then mount up,” Laramie explained to Sally.
As quietly as possible, they led the three horses out of the barn and past the corral. Once clear, Laramie gave Slate Bo's reins and whispered, “Keep goin', I'll let their horses out to give us more of an advantage.”
While the others disappeared into the darkness, Lara
mie dropped the two Lodge Pole rails used as a gate. The horses milled about skittishly, unused to the strange man who walked among them. Once inside the corral, he gently urged the horses toward the opening, careful not to spook them, and keep noise to a minimum. They walked through the opening and out into the meadow.
Laramie caught up with Sally and Slate in the tree line that circled the meadow, “Where to now?” Slate asked him.
“Into the mountains,” he answered.
Sally was a little surprised by this, “Why? Why the mountains? Shouldn't we take the trail and try to get to Mountain Pass?”
“We are goin' to Mountain Pass, Sally,” Laramie answered truthfully, “but we're takin' the long way around. From here, I mean to go to Beaver Meadow. Don't forget I'm bein' followed by that posse from Rock Springs. If Blackie comes after us, which I think he will, I want to try to lose them all in the mountains. If they flounder around lookin' for our trail, all the better for us. Now stop gabbin' and get on your horses.”
*
Two hours before dawn, a man stepped from of the tree line close to Four Trails way station, closely followed by another.
“Are you sure they are here?” the first man asked.
“I am sure.”
The first man stared at the way station and grunted a reply. Both men stood and watched in silence for a short while before they melted quietly back into the trees.
Chapter 5
“Get up!” roared Blackie Harbin as he kicked Cato savagely in the ribs, “Why in hell are you not on watch?”
Cato struggled to sit up, and held his side where Harbin had delivered the blow, “What the hell Blackie? What did you do that for?”
The others started to stir, and Benny asked through his waking fog, “What's goin' on Blackie?”
“What's goin' on Blackie?” The furious outlaw leader mimicked, “I'll tell you what's goin' on! You and this damned lunk head here were meant to be on watch hours ago. Instead, I wake up and find you still asleep in here. Not to mention, Laramie and the damn woman have gone!”