by Eric Red
Butler looked into his own glass. “Reckon you want a cut of the reward?”
Noose shook his head. “Nope.”
“Want the whole reward?”
Noose finally looked at Butler and the others, and his gaze was sure and steady. “I brung him in alive. You boys murdered him and you’re gonna pay.”
The leader of the bounty killers reared up from the bar and swept a huge, incredulous look across the amazed eyes of the hardened grizzled gunmen lining the bar. A chuckle passed through the men like the sizzling fuse on a stick of dynamite, burning down to Butler, who laughed cold and mercilessly.
Noose didn’t laugh. “You boys must be desperate. I figure the reward for Barrow comes out to less than a hundred dollars each. Maybe you should get real jobs. You know what they say, boys . . . you’re worth what they pay you.”
“Well, mister, what you got in mind to do about this here situation?”
“I’m gonna tell the marshal you killed Barrow.”
“Twelve of us says different.”
“We’ll see.” Noose just smiled to himself, which riled the killers. “Meantime, nothin’ to do but wait.”
CHAPTER 3
Bess Sugarland had woken at dawn as usual that morning in Hoback, a few hours before the men rode in with the dead body over the saddle of the horse, and somehow she just knew there was going to be trouble.
The young woman was twenty-one. She was pretty, hardy, and fit from a life spent out of doors. After brushing her teeth and combing her short auburn hair in the mirror of the small room in back of the U.S. Marshal’s office where she lived, Bess splashed bracing cold water on her freckled face. It was a cold and crisp Wyoming morning, and the sharp sunlight blasted in through the window on her unmade bed. A woodpecker was tapping outside the walls and a squirrel scampered through the roof, and she promised herself to take care of both later that day.
Bess dried her face off and cast a glance at the old photo of her father and mother on the wall. It was all she had to remember her mother by.
She pulled on her jeans over her lanky hips, tugged on her boots, and buttoned her denim shirt over her firm young bosom as she finished dressing.
As she went to the door, she took the belt with rounds of ammo in the notches and the big Navy revolver in the holster and strapped it on.
Bess picked up the six-star silver deputy badge and pinned it on her shirt.
She left the room.
The marshal’s office was empty in the early Wyoming morning, but she could already hear the old man puttering around in his shack next door. The young woman started the daily routine: she threw some wood in the stove, set it alight—two logs crossways, one on top, kindling below—and then put on a pot of coffee. The wood stove was empty so she went outside to the woodshed.
Bess breathed deep of the crisp, peaty morning air that refreshed her lungs. It was scented with pine and river water. Walking to the stump, she yanked the ax out, threw on a log, and cleanly split it with a graceful and powerful downward two-handed swing. Taking a look up at the thick-forested mountains and granite chasms that reared into the big skies around her, she inhaled the fresh and clear air and smiled. Then she gathered the pieces of wood under her arm and went back inside.
While making the coffee, she checked the telegraph to see if any warrants had come through.
The Hoback U.S. Marshal’s office was out in the middle of nowhere, thirty miles from Jackson Hole. It was surrounded by some of the most spectacular and majestic scenery in the state—staggering mountain ranges and sweeping pine forests around the wending surge of the icy Hoback River that fed into the mighty Snake River a few miles on. The isolation suited her down to the ground. Usually they rarely saw a soul in these parts until the wranglers came down out of the mountains with their herds of sheep in the spring. But the occasional outlaw came through, who they were told to be on the lookout for, or there would be a posse or manhunt she and her father needed to do a ride-along with.
While the coffee began to boil and filled the office with the good smell, Bess took a seat and began stripping and cleaning the rifles in the rack.
That’s when Marshal Nate Sugarland walked in, washed and scrubbed with a big warm smile on his rugged, bearded face. He was a big, husky man of sixty-two years of age, heavyset but it was all muscle. He looked like a mountain man with a badge. The sight of her old man always warmed her heart as it had her whole life. “Mornin’, Bess,” he greeted her, blue eyes twinkling.
“Hiya, Pop. How did you sleep last night?”
“Terrible. Tossed and turned the whole time worrying about when you were going to get the hell out of here and move to Jackson, find yourself a nice man, settle down, and have a life.”
“There’s lots of time for that. Right now I got you to take care of.”
“I don’t need no taking care of. I need grandchildren.”
“And I’m not fixed to be no housewife.”
And so it went, affably. They had the same conversation a few times a week.
That was when they heard the horses.
“What the hell—?” said Sugarland.
Sugarland and his deputy daughter went to the window, both of them looking out at the thirteen horses trotting into the outpost. Twelve of them were ridden by men in dusters. A body was slung over the saddle of the last horse.
“That man looks dead, Pop.”
“Reckon.”
“He’s not wearing the same coats as the rest, so he probably ain’t one of them.”
“Good girl. Observant. Just like I taught you.”
“Who do you savvy they are?”
“Bounty hunters, from the looks of them.”
They watched as the gang tied up their horses by the saloon, left the corpse on the saddle, and went inside.
The marshal’s eyes narrowed. “How do you like that, Bess?” Sugarland said in disgust. “Them bounty hunters got no respect. Don’t bother coming here first to talk to us about claiming the reward. Just go to the bar and drink. Wait for us to smell the corpse and come to them. I got a bad feeling about these boys.”
“How do you want to handle it, Pop?”
“They’re taking their time. So can we. Let’s have our coffee. Then we’ll head over and sort ’em out.”
They both poured their cups. Bess drank hers by the window, watching the bar.
Ten minutes later, she saw the big cowboy ride up, tie his horse, and go inside.
The first impression she had of Joe Noose was, he was very handsome.
CHAPTER 4
Fifteen minutes had passed since Noose had entered the bar. He and Butler never took their eyes off each other.
Now both men heard something else. Spurs outside.
The doors to the saloon swung open with a rusty creak and two silhouetted figures stood blocking the daylight.
A gleam of sunlight on a silver star flared on the bigger one’s chest. “You boys brung in that dead man for a reward?” Marshal Nate Sugarland was an old man and did not move fast. Noose put him at under six foot two and on the better side of two hundred and fifty pounds. He was sweating profusely in the sun. He had a scruffy white beard, wore two Colt Peacemaker pistols on a weathered holster, but his eyes were sharp and observant.
His deputy was a girl, a lean and lanky auburn-headed kid who didn’t look any older than a teenager. Noose registered her pretty tomboy face and gangly demeanor, but noted she had a good grip on the big lever-action Winchester rifle she held in both big hands.
“That’s Jim Henry Barrow slung over the saddle outside. The bounty is a thousand dollars, dead or alive, Marshal,” said Frank Butler, turning to stand with his back against the bar, facing the lawmen. “We’re here to turn the body over to you and collect—”
Noose cut Butler off. “They murdered that man. He was unarmed. I’m a witness,” he said.
Sugarland turned his gaze to the lone man at the end of the bar, standing apart from the others. He had not seen him ride
up alone as his daughter had, and up until now had assumed he was part of the same gang. “I ain’t with these men, Marshal,” the big tough cowboy said as if reading the lawman’s thoughts. “Name’s Joe Noose. I am a bounty hunter but not a bounty killer like these boys. You can telegraph Victor and speak to the sheriff there and he’ll vouch for me. I was following Barrow from Victor and I had taken him into custody unharmed when one of these men shot him dead and the gang stole the body.”
Marshal Sugarland cut his narrow gaze from Noose to Butler, then cut it back to Noose again. “You sayin’ this was an illegal killing?”
“Yes, I am.” Noose nodded.
“Bull.” Butler spat.
“That’s a damn serious charge,” the lawman said, shifting his gaze to the leader of the bounty killers. “Identify yourself.”
“I’m Frank Butler. These boys is with me.”
“I’ve heard of you. Not much of it good,” Sugarland said, his eyes hardening in recognition.
Noose smelled liquor on the marshal’s breath, which was worrisome. The bounty hunter slid his gaze over to the lady deputy. He picked up on the family resemblance. The young woman stood clenching her rifle with both hands, staying near the door, backing up her father, the marshal. Noose sensed her inexperience as a lawman but saw flint in her gaze.
“He’s a damn liar,” said Butler, nodding at Noose. “We were both chasing this boy Barrow, we got there first, the reward’s ours, and he’s just sore about it. I got eleven men right here swear that’s the truth.”
The eleven gunslingers gruffly murmured assent.
“Let’s get to calling that reward in, Marshal. I’m sure you’re very busy so we’ll take care of business and be on our way.” Butler took out his wallet to pay the tab.
The wallet itself was a brown female severed breast, stitched into a tobacco pouch. A mottled brown nipple was on the side. “What the hell is that?” Sugarland asked.
Butler pinched a fingerful of shag tobacco from the grotesque pouch and licked a paper, rolling the cigarette one-handed. “Cut it off a squaw when I was in the cavalry back in the Dakotas.” He lit the smoke.
Bess flinched at the obscene sight of the severed breast tobacco pouch.
The marshal saw the scalps. Hair and dried skin on the inside of Butler’s open duster. “You boys scalp hunters?” His eyes hardened.
“Man’s got to make a living.” Butler snorted smoke from his nostrils.
“I don’t like killers.”
“It’s legal.”
The tension was suddenly so thick in the bar you could cut it with a knife. Noose’s words had registered with the marshal. “Something don’t smell right,” the old man said.
Butler bristled. “My boys and me brought in the wanted man. End of story.”
Sugarland’s mind worked slowly behind his eyes. He rubbed his beard. Then he looked at Noose. “Which one of these men did you see kill the man outside?”
The bounty hunter had to admit it: “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know?”
“They ambushed us.”
A strenuous chorus of argumentative objections and derisive grunts came from the gang of big dirty men in dusters who lined the bar.
“Don’t make no never mind.” The marshal turned to his deputy daughter. “Bess, get over to the office and telegraph Victor. Give ’em a description on this man Noose and check out his story.” The fresh-faced girl nodded and hurried out of the bar, crossing the street and disappearing into the marshal’s office.
“What about our money?” A testy Butler spoke through gritted teeth.
“Gotta be an investigation first. We’re gonna take statements. Your story checks out, you get your money and you’re on your way. His story checks out, there’s gonna be a hanging. Maybe more than one.”
Violence spread like stink through the assembled gang at the bar and they exchanged surly glances. All frustrated eyes went to Butler, who was staring at the floor, thumbs hooked in his belt. “You’re the marshal,” he said in a controlled whisper.
“That’s right,” Sugarland said.
Now it was very quiet in the bar. Too damn quiet, thought Noose. He stayed rooted in place at the end of the bar, his eyes fixed on first the gang, then Butler, then the marshal. They were going to wait it out, and who knew what anyone was going to do. The bounty hunters had been dealt a bad hand and heavily armed as they were, they couldn’t start shooting because they needed Sugarland’s sign-off for the reward. In a few minutes, the deputy would be back from the marshal’s office, where she was telegraphing Victor. Noose’s story would check out. It would be a long two-day ride across the pass back to Idaho and they would all be in front of Judge Proctor. In the end, it would be Noose’s word against these twelve gunmen.
Sugarland stood square in the center of the room, facing the dangerous gunmen at the bar, wearing his silver star and his crappy old pistol that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned and would misfire. Butler peered over at Noose and they locked eyes. The gaunt, skeletal badman had death in his gaze. The clock was ticking.
“Marshal’s got to do his job,” said Butler finally. “I should know.” With that, he opened his muddy black duster and pulled something out of his vest.
A U.S. Marshal’s badge, dented and dull, gleamed in his gloved fingers.
Sugarland looked at it, confused. “You’re a marshal?”
Butler’s eyes narrowed. “I took it off the last one I killed.”
The gun blast shook the room to the rafters. Suddenly, Butler had drawn his Colt Dragoon from his holster with one hand, pushing it under the flattened palm of his other gloved hand, fanning it, and fired five times, shooting Sugarland square in the chest, blowing fist-sized blood-spraying craters through his shirt. Each round hammered the old man back, his boots tripping backward, until he collapsed in a cloud of smoke and raining blood onto the floor.
The bartender should not have gone for the shotgun behind the counter. Butler whirled and shot him once square between the eyes. Blood and skull made an ugly splatter from the exit wound in the back of the proprietor’s head. He slammed into the racks of bottles, falling to the floor amidst the shattering glass and spilling cheap liquor.
The room was filled with the deafening echo of gunfire and the smell of gunpowder and copper stench of blood.
It was over in seconds.
“Don’t kill him!” Butler roared, and Noose knew that by “him” he meant Noose. All of the gang had their guns out. He didn’t have a chance. Noose froze, hearing the hammers click back on the eleven gun barrels aimed at his head. He didn’t breathe and moved his hands away from his pistol holsters. “I need him alive,” hissed Butler again.
Noose just stood there, impressed at the cold-blooded efficiency of the murder spree that ended law—and witnesses—in Hoback.
Frank Butler spun his empty pistol into his left holster and drew the fully loaded second pistol from his right one. He faced the frozen, braced Noose and took a few slow, deliberate steps toward him, his bullet eyes squinted and his voice dangerously low. “You were right about one thing. One thousand dollars reward ain’t much split twelve ways. How much reward is gonna be put up for the killing of a U.S. Marshal? I figure fifty to a hundred thousand dollars when we turn you in.”
Noose’s eyes narrowed. “Turn me in for what?”
“For the killing of the marshal.” There was nothing to say as it sunk in. Right away Noose saw the fix he was in. He’d been framed. They’d killed the only witness to the marshal’s murder. It was the word of twelve men against him. “Now you got two choices,” Butler continued, pointing his gun point-blank in Noose’s steely face. “You can stay here and we kill you, tell the deputy you killed the marshal before we did for you, and collect the reward. The other choice is you run, we come after you, and collect the reward.”
Some choice, thought Noose bitterly.
Butler stepped closer, speaking through clenched teeth. “You get on your horse and you ride h
ard, boy. We’ll be coming after ya. Just as soon as we get that deputy to authorize the reward in Victor. Make it all legit. Least we’re givin’ you a head start. This way you live a few more minutes. Move.”
So Noose moved.
Bolting out the door into the fresh, dusty daylight that stung his eyes, he untethered his horse, swung into his saddle, and reined his horse around to charge off up the street at full gallop. As he rode out of town, he passed the kid deputy Sugarland rushing out of the marshal’s office after hearing the gunshots, watching in confusion as Noose rode past and calling for him to stop, but then hurrying off with her rifle up the street into the bar.
Noose’s horse left the dirt road at the end of town and galloped up the trail into the hills. He figured he had maybe a half hour before those killers got their reward authorized and would be after him to take him dead rather than alive. Noose figured he could get maybe five miles ahead.
He could already feel the noose tightening.
CHAPTER 5
Deputy Sugarland shoved through the swinging doors and took in the bloody scene in horror. Her face twisted in grief at the sight of the dead old man on the floor.
“No!” she screamed. Dropping to her knees by Sugarland’s corpse, Bess stroked her father’s body tenderly with a shaking hand and wept. Gathering the marshal gently in her arms, she cradled him and sobbed. “Oh no, no . . .”
In fury and anguish, she looked around at the hard men from where she sat on the floor. Frank Butler and his big, grim bounty hunters leaned casually against the bar. A long, shadowy and sinister line of duster coats and big hats. They impassively sipped whiskey and smoked cigars. “Who did this?” she shrieked, shaking.
Butler bit the tip off a stogie. “Warned you about that varmint.”
“But—?”
“We got a good look at him. Saw where he went.”
“W-why didn’t you shoot him?”