by B. S. Dunn
A dry triple click of a gun hammer caused the Sheriff to turn slowly, and he came face to face with Blackie Harbin.
“Nice of you to turn up law dog,” Blackie said through gritted teeth, “Now how about you toss that gun of yours.”
Jeb noticed that Harbin had taken a shot to the left shoulder. Blood ran down his arm and dripped from the tips of his fingers. His face was a mask of pain and he was unsteady on his feet, but the six-gun he held in his right fist was rock steady.
The sheriff lowered his gun, “Now hold on there stranger. You'd best think about it before you go and pull that trigger.”
“I said, lose the gun,” Harbin repeated the order.
Coltrain looked around the yard and noticed that posse men and outlaws alike, still had their weapons drawn but had them pointed at each other.
“What's your name?” he asked Harbin.
Harbin looked at him as if he were stupid, “Don't you know? Hell Sheriff, I'm the notorious Blackie Harbin.”
The sheriff nodded, “I heard of you. Mean son of a bitch, and low down murderer.”
Harbin smiled through the pain, “You heard right.”
“I tell you what Harbin. How about we forget our paths ever crossed? Would that suit you?”
Harbin looked at the law man suspiciously, “Now why would you do that?”
“Because it ain't you we're chasin',” Jeb explained, “We are after the scum that killed my brother's boy, who also happened to be my deputy. Feller by the name of Laramie Davis.”
Harbin laughed bitterly.
“What's funny?” the Sheriff asked, curious.
“Hell, Laramie was here last night Sheriff,” Harbin explained, his voice full of mirth, “ Matter of fact he left sometime during the night and took somethin' of mine with him.”
“Where did he go?” the Judge burst out eagerly, “Answer me man, I must know so the killer can hang.”
“Ease up Judge,” Jeb cautioned his brother.
“Well, well, a Judge too. This just gets better,” Harbin went quiet, trying to think.
“Are we goin' to shoot 'em Blackie?” Benny asked his boss from halfway across the yard.
“Shut up a moment kid, I'm busy.”
Harbin looked thoughtfully at the Sheriff, “I tell you what law man, since you and I are goin' to be after the same man, how about we join up together and do it that way.”
There were two reasons for Harbin's suggestion. The first was the Indians. He knew, without a doubt, that they would be back. The second was the ammunition situation, as he had no bullets left in his gun. He couldn't shoot the Sheriff even if he'd wanted to.
“No!” barked the Judge.
Jeb ignored his brother, “Alright we'll do it that way, but I don't want no grief. Any trouble from your boys and they'll have me to deal with. That goes for you too.”
Harbin's eyes glittered and he broke into a churlish grin as he lowered his gun, “Looks like we got ourselves a deal.”
“Fine then,” affirmed Jeb Coltrain, “we'd best see to the dead and wounded.”
*
The trio topped Frenchie's Pass early in the afternoon and the vista before them, was one of the most beautiful sights that Sally had ever seen. The lush, green meadows, the giant trees from an ageless time, and the sun's reflection on the crystal clear water of the lake that sparkled like diamonds. The effect was breathtakingly spectacular.
“That is amazing,” she marvelled softly, as she tried to find her voice, “I never knew a place like this existed. It's unbelievable.”
“As old Lonesome says, it's about as close to heaven as a man can get, without dyin'.”
“I think I tend to agree with him, whoever he is,” Sally said, her mouth agape in awe, “What's it called? This valley, what's its name?”
Laramie shook his head, “Beaver Valley.”
“Who's Old Lonesome?” Slate asked.
“He's an old trapper, goes by the name of Lonesome Lane,” explained Laramie, “He's been livin' in this valley since forever. You'll meet him later on, as we should reach his cabin before dark.”
The trail down into the valley was narrow. It twisted through tall ponderosa, and turned past large, jagged rock formations. At one point, the path tapered down to a constricted ledge that ran along a sheer cliff face with a drop of over five hundred feet, before it opened up again and curved away through another stand of trees. Occasionally, a small rivulet of water cut the rider's path and continued its course to the drop off, where it formed one of many scattered, miniature waterfalls.
On their arrival at the base of the valley, the trail came out into a broad meadow and the trio found themselves riding through grass, thick and tall enough to touch their horse's flanks.
For the rest of the afternoon they followed the trail as it meandered across small, swift flowing streams that bubbled and gurgled over their rocky bottoms, dappled sunlight creating a hypnotic effect. On the north shore of the small lake, the riders startled some elk that grazed upon an abundance of sweet grass. The horses picked their way along the bank of a slow stream and headed toward a large dam built and maintained by a small beaver population which inhabited the deep pond formed by the wall.
Beyond the beaver pond, and its furry residents, lay their destination. A rough hewn log cabin with wooden shutters and smoke that curled lazily from a stone chimney. The home of Lonesome Lane.
As they approached the cabin, a man stepped through the doorway and levelled an ancient Hawken rifle in Laramie's direction, “Hold it right there Pilgrim, I'd hate to paint that there fancy horse of yours a nice shade of red.”
*
While Laramie stared into the gaping muzzle of Lonesome's Hawken, the posse, boosted by the remains of Blackie Harbin's gang, approached a flat strip of land, sparsely covered by trees, just shy of Frenchie's Pass.
“We'll camp here for the night,” ordered Jeb Coltrain. He pointed at a fast flowing stream which split the bench, “plenty of water and flat ground.”
It suited Harbin. His shoulder wound throbbed something fierce, and he wanted a chance to clean it again.
“What about the Indians?” the Judge asked, concerned, “Won't they come back?”
“That was my thinkin' too,” whined Orson Blake, “We should have turned back after they high tailed it.”
Blake had felt that way since they'd buried Grover Yates in his unmarked grave. Not the only one to voice his opinion, both Blake and Clay Adams, the young cow hand, had had their say. The pair and their misgivings, were overridden by the Coltrains.
“Shut up Blake, your whinin' is startin' to annoy me,” Jeb Coltrain said forcefully before he answered his brother's question, “It's possible, but I think with the lickin' they received today, maybe they'll go and tend their wounds for a while.”
The Judge seemed mollified by that.
With the horses unsaddled and picketed, the Sheriff walked across to Blackie Harbin, “One of yours and one of mine on first watch. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Nope, no problem at all law man.”
Behind them, a disturbance near the horses grabbed their attention and they turned to see Shell and Benny faced off, their hands hovered over their gun butts.
“What did you say?” Benny hissed.
“I said you're a damn wannabe,” Shell spat.
“We'll see about that. What say we find out how good I really am?” bragged Benny.
“You call it, Tin horn,” came Shell's insult.
“Hold it!”
The words that erupted from Sheriff Jeb Coltrain's lips, stayed both hands, “There'll be no gun play. Here or anywhere else for that matter.”
Benny started to speak, “He damn well...”
“Benny, shut up!” Blackie Harbin bellowed, “Go and take first watch.”
“But...”
“Just do it!”
Benny glared at Shell Coltrain then turned quickly and stalked off, the mumble under his breath almost inaudible.
�
�You too, Shell,” said the Sheriff.
The deputy opened his mouth to protest.
“Get gone,” his uncle said as he flung his arm into the air and overrode him.
Blackie watched Shell go and said, “I have a feelin' things are goin' to be mighty interestin' around here Law dog.”
“Ain't that the truth,” Jeb agreed, “just remember, I didn't pass out most of our spare ammunition just for you and yours to shoot us with.”
*
“Hold your fire you damned old ridge runner,” Laramie said and held up his hands, “Are you blind or somethin'?”
“Hell, I know that voice,” Lonesome Lane said, surprised, “Laramie, is that you boy?”
“Yeah Lonesome, it's me,” the gunfighter confirmed.
“Well shoot boy,” beamed Lonesome as he lowered the Hawken, “get your butt off that damn mule of yours and over here where I can see you proper.”
“What about my friends?”
The ageing trapper nodded, “Sure, them too.”
Laramie and the others dismounted and walked over to where the old man stood. It had been a good while since Laramie had paid Lonesome a visit, the change evident in the colour of the Mountain man's beard which now matched the snow white of his hair. His face held the ravages of time, the many contours of age, and his wide shoulders looked as though they carried the weight of the world.
“Damn boy, what brings you all the way up here?”
Laramie expelled a large breath and said seriously, “I have myself a little problem.”
Chapter 7
“A little problem you say?” Lonesome shook his head, “Son, I'd say that just maybe it's a little bit of an understatement, wouldn't you.”
“Maybe,” Laramie conceded.
The gunfighter had filled Lonesome in on his ordeal after Sally and Slate had been introduced to the old trapper.
“Stay as long as you like, son,” Lonesome invited, “I haven't had a good scrap in an age. Some excitement around here would be good.”
Laramie shook his head, “We'll just stay the night if it's all the same, don't want you getting' caught up in our troubles.”
“Suit yourself son, anyway come on inside. I reckon the young lady could use a seat that ain't movin' around of its own accord.”
Sally smiled warmly, “You reckon right, Mister Lane.”
Lonesome raised his eyebrows, “And she's respectful. Come on Missy, it's been a long time since I talked to a lovely lass such as yourself. I'm goin' to enjoy havin' you around even if it is only for one night.”
The old man turned to step inside when Laramie asked, “Hey Lonesome, do you know anythin' about the Blackfeet kickin' up a stink.”
“First I've heard of it,” said the trapper, who continued to walk into the cabin.
*
Far off up the valley, a wolf's howl was answered by the high pitched shriek of a mountain lion. The moon was up and the clear mountain air held a slight chill. Laramie and Slate sat in front of the cabin on the rickety porch, where they discussed Blackie Harbin's plans
“Where was Blackie headin' after you hit the stage?” he asked the outlaw.
“He's got a hideout over near Eagle Falls. Do you know where that is?”
Laramie nodded, “Yeah, about a day's ride from Mountain Pass, where we're headin'.”
“That's right. There is an old abandoned minin' shack there. Blackie's been usin' it for two years or so, and no one ever goes near the place.”
“I find it strange that the law ain't found it,” Laramie wondered out loud.
“Its not that easy to find,” Slate explained, “There's a box canyon to the north of Eagle Falls with a narrow mouth, and the cabin's set way back in a stand of trees. Unless you know where to look, or stumble upon it, you wouldn't know it's there.”
A noise behind them drew their attention. Sally Richards had emerged from the cabin unnoticed, “He's gone to sleep,” she explained.
Slate stood up from where he was seated and brushed himself off, “I'll just go check the horses.”
After he was gone, Sally said, “I didn't mean to chase him away.”
Laramie shrugged it off, “Don't let it worry you.”
Sally looked up at the broad expanse of the star filled sky and sighed heavily, “It's beautiful here Laramie. I can see why Mister Lane would choose to live here.”
“It's certainly a special place,” he agreed, “as long as I've known him, he's never wanted to be anywhere else.”
“Oh, how long have you known him?”
“I was quite a young man when I first met Lonesome. It was shortly after I'd joined the Marshal's and I was on a job trackin' down a wanted man,” Laramie smiled, “and I got lost.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, hopelessly lost. Anyway I happened to hear some shootin' goin' on and ridin' to the sound of the guns, I came across Lonesome havin' a good set to with some natives. Well bein' a young buck and showin' no fear, I rode straight into that fight and got shot.”
Sally tried to cover her smile, “Oh, no.”
“Yes, lookin' back now, it does seem funny,” he allowed, “but at the time, it hurt somethin' fierce. When I came to, Lonesome had patched me up and then brought me back here to mend. It was quite ironic, here was me, I tried to save his life and instead it ended up, he saved mine. We've been friends ever since. Helped me out of a scrape a time or two as well.”
Sally thought for a moment, “How old is he?'
The gunfighter smiled at her, “Don't rightly know myself, but if I had to guess I'd say he's seen a lot of seasons and leave it at that. I do know one thing though, don't let his age fool you. Under that crusty old exterior is one tough man, he's had to be to survive this long.”
Sally changed the subject, “When will we reach Mountain Pass?”
“Providin' it all goes to plan, you'll be home in two days,” Laramie answered. “That's if we don't have any troubles.”
“Why did you stop?' Sally asked bluntly, “I mean, back at the way station, you could have kept riding and forgotten all about it, not become involved.”
“I guess that's the Marshal in me,” he explained truthfully, “I couldn't keep ridin'. My conscience wouldn't let me. It's a flaw that I have. Even when I sell my gun, it's always for the right cause.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure, why not?” he answered, curious.
“If you feel that way, why leave the Marshal Service? Surely it was better to be a Marshal than a gunman?”
For a moment Laramie couldn't speak. No person had asked him that question before.
“I'm sorry,” Sally apologised, “Please, it really is none of my business so don't answer if you don't want to.”
“No, it's fine,” Laramie replied and tried to ease her embarrassment, “what it boils down to, is the choice wasn't mine. The Marshal's let me go.”
Sally was confused, “But why? If you were so good at your job, what possible reason could they have to let you go?”
Laramie told her the story, “All my life I've been good with a gun, so when I joined the Marshal's they would give me special assignments. The tough nuts to crack, so to speak. The main job that came my way was to bring law and order to wild towns. Pretty soon I became known as the Marshal's specialist Town Tamer.”
He paused before he continued, “The more towns I tamed, the bigger my reputation became and before long, I was looked upon as a hired gun more than a United States Marshal. Shortly after that, the Marshal's decided it was a reputation they didn't want associated with the law, so they let me go.”
“I'm sorry,” Sally said quietly.
“Don't be, lookin' back now, they were probably right.”
There was an uneasy silence for a few moments before Laramie said, “You'd best turn in. We have us a long ride comin' up tomorrow.”
“Yes, you're right,” Sally agreed as she stood up, “goodnight Laramie.”
“Goodnight Sall
y.”
*
Shortly after dawn, three steaming plates of food sat in front of the men. Laramie looked at the brown, gluey substance and then questioningly at Sally.
“What is it?” he asked cautiously.
“You don't want to know,” she blanched in disgust.
He looked across the table at Lonesome who shovelled great forkfuls of whatever it was, into his mouth. Slate on the other hand, ate tentatively, like a bird would peck at seeds on the ground.
Laramie looked once more at Sally who shook her head slightly to discourage him from the pile on his plate. He frowned, aware that something was wrong, and it wasn't until Lonesome spoke, that he found out what it was.
“Missy,” the old Trapper garbled, his mouth half full of food, “this just has to be the best skunk stew I've eaten since Fifty-Eight.”
Laramie screwed up his face and pushed the old tin plate away. He glanced across at Slate who had turned a slight shade of green and excused himself quickly as he expelled the contents of his mouth.
The gunfighter looked at Sally, “Where's yours?”
Her expression stoic, she said, “Thanks, but I've already eaten.”
Laramie was about to say more when a noise from outside drew his attention. He rose from his chair, crossed to a window, and drew one of his Remingtons as he went. He eased back the flap of hide which passed for a curtain. It parted enough for him to see five Blackfoot warriors ease their ponies to a stop outside the cabin. All of them, their horses included, were painted for war.
The cabin door opened and Laramie turned to see Lonesome disappear out it and onto the porch. Then he realised that the old man was unarmed. He thumbed back the hammer of his gun and waited.
“What's happening?” asked Sally, a slight quiver in her voice after having seen the gunfighter cock his weapon.
He held up his hand to quiet her.
With the use of words and hand gestures, the Indians and the old Trapper communicated for five minutes. At one stage of the conversation, one of the Braves pointed to the cabin. With a furious head shake by Lonesome, the Indians seemed convinced of what the mountain man told them.