Noose

by Eric Red

  After tethering his new horse to a tree, Noose faced the physical challenge of getting off it. Stiffly and gingerly dismounting the saddle he was in considerable discomfort, the pressure of his boot in the stirrup when he put his weight on it sent stabbing pain up his sides where his ribs had been broken, and when his boots hit the ground, the searing agony of the bullet holes in him made him fall against the saddle with a gasp. The horse looked back at him with big eyes filled whether with pity or curiosity he couldn’t tell. A few moments later the cowboy got his feet under him and found his balance but saw drops of his own blood on the pine needles crunching under his heels as he staggered away from his horse.

  Noose limped to the overlook, leaned against a tree trunk, and took out his field glasses. He peered through them, mindful to angle them away from the sun so a glint of reflection wouldn’t give away his position. A cursory scan of the landscape below through the magnified oval view of the small pair of brass binoculars revealed no other riders coming from the direction he had just ridden. To the left, a quarter mile out, Noose observed a lazy trail of settling dust from what looked likely to be a number of horses, so it appeared the bounty killers had gone just west of him. Noose couldn’t tell how long it would take them to realize their mistake but had to figure they would wise up and double back soon enough—when they did, he better be elsewhere.

  For now, Noose held the high ground. There he made a temporary encampment.

  Returning to the tethered stallion, the cowboy took the canteen from the saddlebag to give some water to the horse. It jerked its head back when he brought the spout too close to its face to splash water in its mouth. The animal was high-strung and skittish, and Noose whistled gently to calm it. “Easy, boy. Easy. We both need us some rest. Got us a hard ride ahead. Got to get to Jackson Hole, turn myself in. They’ll believe me. They’ll have to. Need you to run fast, get us away from these guns, you hear?”

  The horse, big in size and bronze of coat, regarded him warily with a cagey, dodgy look in its big brown eyes; it definitely didn’t trust him yet. Noose could hardly expect otherwise, having shot its previous owner clean out of the saddle, though from the look of the raw spur gashes on the stallion’s flanks and its overall abused and battered appearance, this was no great loss to the animal and he’d done it a service. Noose was good with horses and figured it was just going to take time to make friends . . . time he hoped he had.

  If the stubborn horse didn’t want to drink that was its business. Noose had to fix his wounds, so he rummaged in the saddlebags and found a roll of clean cloths and bandages, though nothing much else in the way of medical supplies. Staggering down to the brook, he knelt by the edge and refilled his canteen. Splashed water on his face. Then he peeled off his shirt, wet the cloth in the brook, and cleaned the bullet holes, both entrance and exit wounds. The cowboy reminded himself he had been lucky that the round had gone clean through and he didn’t have any lead in him—cutting a flattened slug out of his body would have sorely put him to the test. When Noose had got as much dirt out of the skin as he could he dabbed the bloody wounds dry and reached reluctantly for his gun belt.

  Pulled a .45 cartridge out.

  Put the lead head in his teeth, gripped the casing in his fist, bit down firmly, and pulled—hard.

  In a moment, the head came loose of the cartridge and he kept the bullet grit between his teeth so he’d have something to bite down on, because he was going to need it.

  This was the part that was really going to hurt . . .

  Turning the open shell sideways, Noose sprinkled a small pile of the gunpowder on first the gaping bullet hole on the front of his shoulder, then the hole behind it, like a saltshaker.

  Tossing the empty cartridge, he pulled a stick match from his shirt.

  Struck it with his thumbnail in a snick and flash of hissing flame.

  Then Noose lit the gunpowder on the bullet hole in his upper torso, igniting twin sizzling explosions of sparkling flame that spat out the holes in both sides of his shoulder, instantly cauterizing the entrance and exit wounds by burning the flesh shut.

  His agonized scream was muffled by the lead slug he bit down so hard on it nearly broke his teeth.

  The stolen horse, startled by the spectacle, reared and whinnied in alarm, straining against the reins tied to the tree.

  More fire suddenly flared, followed by another round of searing hot agony that made the cowboy reel from the pain as the wound was savagely cauterized. He was buckled over, clouded with the smoky discharge. Rocking on his knees, Noose coughed in the haze of rank smoke that stunk of burnt meat and gunpowder, waiting for the pain to subside and knowing the worst part was over.

  Noose could get rid of the bullet in his mouth now.

  He spat the slug out.

  Wrapping the wound with bandages was the last step—once Noose finished the dressing it was the best he was going to be able to do for himself until he made it to a proper hospital in Jackson Hole. Good idea not to get shot anymore if he could avoid it.

  A sudden wave of fatigue overtook the big cowboy, catching him up unawares. The peace and quiet of the forest lulled him with the pull of its solitude and tranquillity.

  Noose stretched out on the ground, passing out from exhaustion. His pistol lay beside him.

  “Just a few minutes’ rest.”

  Soon his eyes shut.

  * * *

  Noose heard the sound of the hammer of a pistol being cocked a second too late.

  His eyes popped open.

  Frank Butler pressed the muzzle of his Colt Dragoon between his eyes.

  “Easy money,” he chuckled.

  Butler blew Noose’s head off.

  * * *

  With a start, Noose awoke up from his bad dream, gasping for breath. He sat bracing himself, eyes wide. Soon he got drowsy and his lids started to close again. Noose forced himself awake. He reached over to his bandaged bullet wound.

  And jammed his finger against it. His eyes bulged in pain.

  Noose achingly staggered to his feet, grabbed his gun, checked it was loaded, and holstered it.

  “Sleep when you’re dead, fool,” he grumbled to himself.

  Climbing into the stirrups and sliding with a grunt into his saddle, the man untethered the horse and rode off into the vertiginous forest of lush green conifers.

  It felt good to be on the move again.

  * * *

  For the next few miles, Noose rode west, keeping the horse at a steady pace between a fast canter and a slow gallop, heading a little north of where he had last seen the Butler Gang turn south. Keeping a sharp lookout the whole time, he saw no sign of the eight riders and it appeared he had lost them for now. The trail soon left the forest and dropped down into an expanse of sprawling plain that opened onto a bend of the mighty Snake River.

  The scenic tributary flowed on through Jackson Hole to points west, and Noose knew that by following the flow of the big river it would take him to Jackson . . . it was all the map he needed.

  Man and horse rode into the shady glen to the gleaming stretch of the rushing expanse of river traveling by. Noose could see from the way the animal’s chest was heaving and his mouth was chewing the bit that it was thirsty. What horse wouldn’t be after a run like that in this kind of heat? The cowboy himself had to refill his canteen and it would feel good to splash some cool water on his face.

  Noose dismounted, taking the horse by the reins and leading it to the edge of the Snake River. As soon as his boots hit the ground, he felt the animal tense up. The stallion’s face was lathered with sweat and its mouth around the tack was covered with froth. A taut furtive tension tightened in its muscles and stance, a high-strung nervous energy that Noose put down to tiredness from the chase or maybe an unease with his strange new rider now the old one had been shot off—you never knew with horses. The bronze stallion watched him anxiously with both big alert brown eyes as he led it to the river’s edge to drink.

  The horse dropped his s
nout into the flowing water.

  Noose loosened his grip on the reins to give it some berth.

  That was the moment the horse had been waiting for, apparently.

  With a sudden surprise surge of strength and speed the stallion reared up on its hind legs and kicked Noose square in the chest with both front hooves, catapulting him clean off his boots into the Snake River. The reins tore out of his fingers. The cowboy landed in the drink with a wet splash and pained grunt, and when he had wiped the water out of his eyes he saw the horse was already off and running.

  “Sonofabitch!” Noose swore as he rose to his feet, drenched from head to foot, and stepped to shore. There went his ride—the runaway horse was making a break for it, was already halfway across the glen to the edge of the tree line. Noose put both forefingers in his mouth and blew a piercing commanding whistle.

  To his total surprise, the horse stopped running and came to a halt. It didn’t come back, but held its ground, watching the cowboy by the river’s edge in a defiant, cautious stare.

  Noose came to a stop on the shoreline, his clothes dripping in a puddle around his sopping boots. The man didn’t move a muscle. And he didn’t take his eyes off the horse or break its stare. He was totally calm and patient. Minutes passed, and neither moved. Both just stood and took each other’s measure.

  Joe Noose knew that if he made any sudden moves that horse was gone, and he was on foot for good. He was just going to damn well wait the animal out if he could.

  At least a hundred yards stood between the stallion and himself. Rushing it would be a fool’s errand. If the horse had a mind to run and took off, he wouldn’t get ten feet closer to it. He had to get the horse to trust him. That meant be patient and a little lucky.

  It was thirsty. That he knew for sure.

  Unslinging his canteen, Noose crouched down and dunked the nozzle under the water, letting the flow of the river fill it up, which it quickly did, gurgling over the spout. The cowboy rose.

  He took one step closer.

  By the edge of the glen, the horse shied, watching Noose warily.

  The man saw the animal had been mistreated, badly so, by his late owner. The bloody spur marks on the stallion’s flanks were fresh wounds, with a lot of scar tissue in the same area from a history of brutal kicking to drive it faster. Noose felt a surge of anger that anybody would treat a horse that way and felt no remorse he killed the man who did it. That man had it coming. Noose had always preferred animals, especially horses, to people.

  Fifty yards away, the horse just stood and watched the cowboy testily. The steed appeared ready to bolt yet didn’t. Not yet. One big brown eye filled with pain and distrust kept a close watch on the man it had just kicked. One hoof pawed the ground.

  The cowboy took his time.

  Didn’t try to rush the horse.

  It was a big, beautiful animal. Coat a vibrant bronze in color, mane and withers gold and long. The hue gave it the appearance of being armored, like a medieval knight’s mount. Its mighty legs were long and muscular and it stood ten hands high at the shoulder. This horse was strong and fast and it had guts, Noose could vouch for that.

  It wasn’t a bad-tempered horse.

  Just abused, was all.

  A full thirty minutes elapsed before Joe Noose was able to walk across the glen to the animal’s side. When he got there it was panting and shivering with dehydration, needing water in the worst way.

  Noose opened his canteen and poured some cool river water in the horse’s mouth.

  Instantly, the stallion drank thirstily, lips opening and closing and head tossing back, as the cowboy poured the entire canteen down its throat.

  When the canteen was empty, the horse was gazing at him with a warmer, more trusting gaze.

  Guess we’re friends now. The man smiled. At least starting to be.

  Noose gently patted the powerful neck and warmly pressed his face against its shoulder, feeling the caution in the horse begin to melt. He spoke softly to it.

  “C’mon, boy. You look like you’re still thirsty and, hell, you drank all my water. Lucky for us, there’s plenty to go around right over there. Let’s go back to yonder river.”

  Noose took the reins and led the stallion back to the river’s edge and it accompanied him without complaint. There, the animal dropped its snout in the rushing waters and slaked its thirst while Noose refilled his canteen and quenched his own.

  The bronze of the horse’s coat seemed almost metallic in the sunlight, Noose observed admiringly.

  He named it Copper.

  CHAPTER 13

  Sun high.

  The scree of a hawk.

  A droning buzz of insects in the grass.The swish of a horse’s tail brushing at flies.

  Adjusting the brim of her hat, Bess Sugarland wiped sweat from her brow and shifted calmly in the saddle of her horse, eyeballing the eight mounted gunmen on horseback who eyeballed her back. Her gaze was even, purposefully direct: the last thing a lawman could ever do was show fear even when they felt it. The bounty killers were all resting their horses at the edge of a clearing for a few minutes . . . ten minutes and not a second more, Butler had said three of those minutes ago. The search for the man with the reward on his head had suffered a setback when their quarry had given them the slip the last few miles, and the men were all grumbling about having made a wrong turn somewhere, but where exactly they had gone in the wrong direction was the subject of some dispute.

  The only one not offering up an opinion on where they should have turned back up the trail was the leader of the gang. A brooding Frank Butler sat on his huge black horse, glowering under the deep shadow of a tree, puffing a hand-rolled cigarette, snorting smoke out his nostrils as he impatiently checked the pocket watch on a fob in his black vest at regular intervals, noisily snapping it open and closed with a strident snap each time he did.

  Snap. The timepiece opened . . .

  The young female marshal was keeping her eyes open and mouth shut, putting names to faces of the eight men she rode with. The leader the men called Mr. Butler, the only member of the gang referred to by mister, she knew already; Bess was busy getting a handle on the other seven professional killers in the outfit—it seemed a sensible idea to familiarize herself with the dangerous and unpredictable types she rode with to know who she was dealing with and how better to deal with them in the hours to come. To this end, Marshal Sugarland paid close attention to what was going on around her and made a careful study of the gang.

  Snap. The pocket watch closed . . .

  There was the big and steady one named Sharpless, who some men in the gang called Will. He was heavyset, bearded, and swarthy, armed with two Remington Peacemakers he always kept cleaned and well oiled. In the pecking order of the gang, Sharpless appeared to Bess to be the closest Frank Butler had to a number two. Now and then she would observe the two men exchanging words out of earshot of the others, and Butler seemed to listen to Sharpless and consider his opinion when offered. Otherwise, the even-keeled, unassumingly authoritative Will Sharpless didn’t talk much, except to disseminate his boss’s orders to the other shootists, who seemed to respect this man of few words and look up to him. While Will Sharpless had about him a certain deadly air of violence, he also had one of reasonableness.

  Snap . . .

  Culhane—she thought his first name might be John—and Lawson—sometimes called Long Gone or Leroy—were another matter. The two were thick as thieves and stuck together like flies on crap, which both of them repellently reminded her of. These two vermin always rode side by side together, passing comments back and forth, and Bess knew from the dirty looks the scum shot her way at every available opportunity they genuinely hated her guts; whether that was because of her gender or her badge or both, Bess couldn’t say, but among the entire gang she knew these two scrofulous vultures were the ones to watch out for. If she was going to have a problem with any of this crew, it was going to be with Leroy “Long Gone” Lawson and John Culhane.

>   The youngest, at least the most unsure of himself, was Jasper Weed. The whipping boy of the gang was often the butt of jokes about his emaciated reedlike build. Twice on the ride so far, Weed had to retrieve his hat from one of the other men who stole it off his head. Perhaps to compensate, he packed two enormous Colt Dragoons that appeared too big for his fragile feminine hands despite the big gloves he wore to conceal their smallness; the young woman marshal herself had less dainty mitts than this kid did. The other way Weed compensated Bess could smell on him . . . whiskey. The high-strung shootist took repeated swigs from a flask in his duster and acted visibly drunk. Bess had found herself watching Weed a lot the last hour or so—if the bounty killer gang had a weak link, she had decided, it was him; she had made up her mind to chat this one up at the first available opportunity.

  The three others, Luke Garrity, Japeth Trumbull, and Earl Wingo, Bess Sugarland had names to faces for, but no real handle yet on individual personalities—other than they were, to a man, cold-blooded professional killers who would as soon deliver a man dead than alive for a reward. It made no difference to them whatsoever. The whole gang killed for money and it was what they were good at; a glue of raw homicide bound the group together and this made the justice-minded female lawman’s very skin crawl in their company.

  Bess switched her gaze to Sharpless as he made a tsk-tsk sound to his horse and trotted over to beneath the tree where Butler perched in the saddle. The leader had just gestured his number two over with a nudge of his jaw. Bess watched them casually out of the corner of her eye but couldn’t hear what was said—none of the gang could. Sharpless’s lips moved as he said a few words to Butler, who listened and nodded as Sharpless made a few finger gestures in his palm, then Butler pointed west, jerked his thumb sideways, then showed five fingers. Bess watched the exchange as without expression, Sharpless turned and rode his horse back to the gang.

  “Five minutes, boys. Mr. Butler figures Noose intends on following the Snake to Jackson, so our plan is we’re gonna head toward the river and cut him off. We move out in five and fixin’ on riding for a good chunk of time. Finish your smokes. You got to piss, do it now and be quick about it.”