Noose

by Eric Red

  Frank Butler clung to his saddle as his horse dropped through dead air. Down, down, toward the river.

  He hit.

  They all hit.

  Everyone went into the river.

  The Snake River surface was one tangled knot of horse and human arms and legs and asses and elbows bobbing above and below the surface in a chaotic aquatic maelstrom of confusion. A deafening cacophony of shouting and cussing and whinnying was almost but not quite drowned out by the thundering clamor of the river itself.

  The two who were first in the saddle were the pair who never left their saddles in the first place: Frank Butler and Bess Sugarland were good riders who had taken the plunge in complete control of their horses and faculties, landing them hooves first in the drink with little fuss. Damned if while renegotiating his grip on his reins shoulder deep in the Snake, Butler didn’t shoot Bess an admiring wink, she saw. It struck her then the deadly killer was enjoying all this the way he enjoyed mayhem in general, for the simple reason it was when his kind of man felt most alive.

  In a single smooth movement in the water, Butler got out of the saddle and drew his gun, his other arm hanging on to his big black stallion as he was carried downriver alongside the others. Some of the bounty killers were flailing around up to their necks in the cold water. The nine riders were all swept swiftly downstream by the powerful current. The ones who stayed on their horses dismounted and gripped their saddles, riding along with their stallions. The ones who fell off, desperately tried to get back on their horses in the rough white water.

  “I can’t swim!” squealed Culhane like a drowning rat.

  “Then hang on to your saddle good and tight!” the leader barked pitilessly.

  As he floated, Butler helped Sharpless and Trumbull onto their horses, yelling over the roar of the rapids, “Keep your eyes peeled, boys!” The leader kept his pistol drawn and clung to his saddle, his bullet eyes searching the cliffs and shoreline above and around him.

  Despite a lot of sputtering and water spitting, the floating posse had settled down some now they all had their drifting horses in hand and were keeping their heads above water . . . it was almost tranquil—like a holiday river outing except with a lot of guns.

  One gun close by was dry.

  Joe Noose stared down the gunsight of his Winchester rifle, drawing a bead on the rushing river and the heads of the men and horses coming around the bend. He levered the handle with a ker-chack, then was loaded and locked down.

  A soaked Noose was crouched on a small ridge just above the river. His drenched horse was tethered beside him. Noose took careful aim with his rifle on the men in the river. “Fish in a barrel.” He grinned with savage satisfaction. “Come ’n get it.”

  The crosshairs found a bead on the bobbing head of Frank Butler as it popped up and down in the white water.

  Noose’s finger closed on the trigger.

  Pa-kow!

  The shot boomed in a loud ringing echo amplified by the canyon walls.

  A bloody flower erupted in Butler’s arm. The water turned red. He grit his teeth in pain and aimed his pistol madly. “He’s up there, boys! Shoot him!”

  The bounty killers, struggling and deafened in the raging river, heard neither their leader nor the shot. Butler fired up onto the ridge.

  The bullet ricocheted near Noose’s head. He opened fire on the trapped bounty killers with his Winchester as they were swept past him in the river below. Cranking the lever fast, again and again, he unleashed lead mercilessly.

  Weed was hit between the eyes. His limp corpse drifted away from his horse and was dashed against the rocks. His skull cracked like an egg, spilling his brains like red yolk.

  Garrity was shot in the leg and dragged underwater.

  Wingo was shot twice in the arm. Screaming in pain, he struggled to retain his grip on his horse.

  By now, the gang had all realized what was happening and the terrible danger they were in, busily grabbing rifles and pistols from body and saddle holsters. The river exploded with fusillades of gunfire and muzzle flashes as the floating shootists fired blindly in all directions on either shoreline. Their swimming horses panicked, unable to run or escape, trapped in the currents and treading water trying to keep their heads above the surface.

  Bess’s beautifully alarmed face swept one way then the other as she drew her pistol with one hand and gripped the saddle with the other. Wiping the wet strands of hair out of her eyes on her dripping face with the back of her gun hand, she scanned the rocks above, seeing nothing but the raging river. Around her was utter chaos.

  As the bounty hunters bore witness to the water turning red all around them, they got the grim picture and set to business, employing their fearsome tradecraft as shootists. Clenching their guns, using their half-submerged saddles to level their aim, the gang blasted bullets into the surrounding cliffs in a relentless barrage, laying down a wall of suppressing fire. Hordes of heavy-caliber slugs ricocheted off the cliffs in clusters of sparks and rebounded back at them. Staccato strings of gunfire shot up from the river like a floating fireworks show. Noose’s bullets exploded in geysers of water around their heads. A horse was killed and floated away. Butler alone got off surgical shots at the man on the ridge. The air was filled with screams, shots, ricochets, and always the omnipresent thundering surge of the great river.

  Noose grabbed another rifle, this time a Henry, and blasted away. A bullet exploded off a rock by his ear. He wiped the dust out of his eyes and reloaded.

  Just as the bounty killers were swept out of sight around a bend.

  Noose rose and got to his wet horse. He and the animal were getting along just fine despite being newly acquainted and what he’d put the stallion through. Saddling up, he rode out along a narrow trail. Noose urged his horse along the path. He checked his diminishing supply of ammunition.

  “Less than thirty rounds left, boy.” he muttered to his horse but mostly to himself. “And there’s still a lot more of them than there is o’ me.”

  Unnerved and tired, Joe Noose reloaded his irons and headed on.

  Due northwest, toward Jackson Hole.

  * * *

  Frank Butler and his gang rode out of the Snake River at a low point, soaked with water and blood. They stumbled with their horses over treacherous ground and struggled back into their saddles. Bess was one of the first back on her horse, and she could see the gang was in a foul temper. They were one less. With much groaning and grumbling and cursing, the drenched gang of killers fell into step behind their leader as he rode in the direction of the Teton mountain range that loomed over all.

  Trumbull rode up alongside his boss. He took a swig of whiskey and offered the bottle. Butler just stared straight ahead.

  “Us boys been talking,” Trumbull said.

  Garrity cleared his throat. “This stud is tougher than he looks, boss.”

  “We already lost five men,” whined Lawson.

  “Maybe this ain’t a good idea, is what we’re saying,” Wingo said louder than he should have.

  Butler’s eyes clouded. Then they focused like a gunsight on Wingo. “Hundred thousand split seven ways is a lot of money,” Butler said, and pulled up his horse. He turned it to face the six of his gang who were confronting him. “Course, a hundred thousand split six ways is even more for each.”

  The bounty killers exchanged confused glances.

  “Ain’t that right, Garrity?”

  Garrity swallowed. He saw Butler’s hand resting on his holster. “Reckon, but—”

  “And I figure a hundred thousand split four ways is even more. Right, Lawson?”

  Lawson eyed his fellow bounty hunters like a cornered rat. “Sure.”

  “Wouldn’t you agree, Trumbull?

  Butler shot Trumbull a brutal look. The gunman swallowed and nodded, eyeing the rest.

  “And split two ways, that’s even more money. Ain’t that right, Wingo?”

  Wingo nodded, mouth dry.

  The leader’s hand,
gloved for fanning and firing quick-draw work, hovered over the holstered stock of his Colt. “But the most money is a hundred thousand dollars split one way.” Butler’s hand was now on his gun. He eyed his gang with psychotic fury. Wingo’s saddle turned wet as he pissed himself. The bounty hunters withered under the brute force of their leader’s murderous gaze. Then Butler cracked a slow, skull-faced smile. “But it’s only money. Right, boys?”

  His gang cracked up in hysterical nervous laughter.

  “Only money,” said Garrity.

  “Just a lot of stupid money,” agreed Trumbull.

  “It don’t buy you love.” Butler’s eyes were flat.

  He gritted his teeth and the words were a hiss.

  “Nobody quits.”

  Butler spurred his horse. “Now ride!”

  The intimidated bounty hunters kept a fast clip behind their obsessed boss.

  CHAPTER 16

  Minutes later the chase was on again.

  Joe Noose had gotten out of the Snake River on the eastern bank and had been riding sharply northeast, knowing the bounty killers in the river would soon be washed north of him—he was going to have to cut cross-country for now. The cowboy had no real idea where the hell he was, just a general notion of the area, but the north-flowing Snake turned hard east about fifteen miles ahead at Hoback Junction—that, he knew. By any sensible reckoning, those of the Butler Gang still ambulatory would pull themselves out of the water long before Hoback. Landscape permitting, Noose figured if he rode ten miles east, he could turn north and reconnect with the Snake, following it into Jackson, thereby hopefully avoiding his pursuers. Copper was galloping at a good clip, displaying admirable stamina. Noose would have paid good money for a horse like this but he’d gotten it for free, though Copper’s previous owner had parted with the stallion at quite a cost. There was no trail, but the terrain was flat and solid hardpack, easy for the horse to traverse. Cyclopean clouds created an awesome vista in the vast Wyoming sky. The steady drone of insects in the fields was soothing to the ear, there was not another human being in sight, and Noose was feeling safe. But he had not made it half a mile, confident he bought himself an hour or two of lead time after blowing the hell out of the posse in the river, when the first bullet buzzed past his ear.

  Swinging his head over his shoulder, Noose tossed a look behind him to face the unwelcome sight of men and horses hot on his tail, a lot of guns shooting in his direction, spitting off smoke and flashes. Even from the short glance, even at a sizable distance, he could see all of the men were very wet. Bullets screamed past on either side, blowing off chunks of clustered dirt near Copper’s hooves. The fast stallion needed no spur to encourage it to hurry its pace as it lunged forward, charging ahead with everything it had.

  Noose galloped across the huge landscape, a lone rider on his horse. The vast terrain was one big empty. The seven-man posse and the lawman rode in single-file formation in relentless pursuit across the breaks. A long trail of dust kicked up from their hooves’ cleaves like a blade across the barren tundra. The lone hard-charging figure of the fleeing cowboy shot like a bullet across the valley, a smoke cloud of dust to his rear from the oncoming posse.

  Noose rode up a steep hill into the woods.

  Moments later, the gang appeared.

  Pa-kow! Pow! Blam!

  Shots rang out from the upper elevation where Noose had taken position.

  Butler swung his arm with his rifle, ordering his men to seek cover. “He’s up there! Get down! Over there!” All of the posse rode their horses into a wash and dismounted, crouching below the rocks. Nobody was hit, but the bullets kicked up the dirt very close. The bounty killers traded fire over the edge of the rise. Bess stayed tight beside them, reloading her pistol, Whatever she thought of these men, she felt safe in their company when the bullets were flying.

  From somewhere behind the trees above the wash, Noose’s voice boomed down at them. “You boys had enough yet?”

  “Why don’t you just lie down and die?” Butler shouted back, chambering a round.

  “You can kiss my ass!” the hunted man’s voice roared back. “Tell you boys what I’m gonna do! Listen good! I’m gonna kill all of you and get the reward for killing the men who murdered the marshal and come out of this thing rich!”

  Butler’s cynical laughter rang out through the ravine. He had one cautious eye on Bess, who crouched with them.“That’ll be a good trick!” the leader shouted back. “There’s seven witnesses saw you shoot him, you lyin’ sonofabitch!”

  The posse huddled in the low ground as their quarry’s bullets came steadily at them, intermittent but lethally aimed—Noose had them pinned down and there was no getting away from his fierce, persuasive voice. “You know you killed him, Butler, you murderin’ bastard, ’n you framed me for the reward and you’re gonna swing for it!”

  The female marshal looked perplexed. Sudden doubt shook her. Bess looked over at the leader. “What the hell’s he talking about?”

  Butler looked uneasy, she noticed, and so did the other men, judging by their shifty gazes. “He’s just talking a lot of crap, Marshal.”

  Noose went on, his disembodied voice somehow omnipotent and inescapable. “You killed that man Barrow after I brought him in alive to steal the bounty and when I told the marshal the truth you murdered him just to get that big reward put on my head and it’s all a lie! It’s dirty money and dirty money you ain’t gonna get!”

  Listening to all this, Bess wondered if it was the truth. Why would this man lie at this point, make up some story to holler at the posse? He didn’t know the law was riding with the gang. What would he have to gain by spinning this yarn? Those no-accounts were giving her the stink eye and she could smell their guilt and fear by pure female intuition. Something wasn’t right. But she couldn’t be sure. Not yet. She had to play this out.

  “I’m making you a one-time offer, boys! I’m speaking to your men now, Butler!” Noose’s rough voice shouted, echoing through the woods.“Any of you walks away right now, I’ll let you live! You all know it was your boss man Frank Butler killed the marshal and the barman! Hell, for all I know, it was him killed Barrow! Walk away and I’ll let you keep breathing! It’s Butler I want! Reward’s the same for one head as seven for the marshal so makes no difference to me. This is a one-time offer! I best believe you better take it before I change my mind!”

  The balls on that man, mused Bess.

  Butler leapt up and boldly waited for the puff of smoke in the trees above before firing three shots into the position he had just gotten a fix on. “There’s still seven of us to one of you!”

  “I count right!” Noose tauntingly called back from his place of concealment. “Hell, I got more bullets than the rest of you put together!”

  Huddling with her rifle, the marshal studied the bounty killers and saw that Noose’s words were definitely getting to them, and their leader saw it, too. They had a chink in their armor. Noose was getting in their heads.

  Something was wrong here. Something definitely stunk about this whole entire situation.

  And suddenly, a bad fear shot through her.

  Butler gestured to Trumbull to move out. “I’ll keep him talking. Get his ass.”

  Drawing two razor-sharp bowie knives, Trumbull loped off like a wolf out of the wash. Bess had her heart in her throat as she watched him move silently into the trees, following the sound of Noose’s voice.

  Fifteen minutes transpired before Trumbull came out of the woods empty-handed, a black look on his face as he shook his head side to side. Bess didn’t hear him speak, but the meaning was clear.

  Noose was in the wind.

  CHAPTER 17

  Marshal Jack Mackenzie stood by the window of the Jackson Hole U.S. Marshal’s office looking out at the distant mountain range toward Hoback, thinking about the twelve bounty hunters chasing down Joe Noose and remembering he hadn’t liked those men when he’d met them a week ago. Those boys had the smell of homicide all over them.


  Mackenzie thought back to a week before when Frank Butler and his gang of shootists had brought Bonny Kate Valance to town and delivered her to the U.S. Marshal’s office for the reward.

  It had been a quiet morning and the old man had been sitting at his desk filing warrants when he heard a woman’s voice cussing and hollering and carrying on out in the street, so he had grabbed his pistol and gone outside to see what the hell all the commotion was.

  The twelve-man gang had ridden straight up Broadway, looking like an invading force of marauders: heavily-armed big, dangerous men wearing dusters and hats set astride strong horses that looked like they didn’t shy from gunfire. People were getting off the street, fast. A thirteenth horse was escorted in between them. And that was the first time Marshal Mackenzie laid eyes on Bonny Kate Valance.

  She was roped like a prize hog, tied over the saddle on her stomach, her face covered by long red hair of the brightest shade he had ever seen. The woman had stopped hollering because at that moment one of the gang had stuffed a gag in her mouth, which only made the hellion wildcat struggle and thrash about even more. She was dressed in worn denim trousers and a work shirt but her shapely form was apparent. Bonny Kate’s face was flushed bright red with rage and her eyes bulged with a crazy fury. The woman was beautiful to begin with but with her blood up and high color, she was positively astonishing to look at. Mackenzie thought he had never seen in the flesh as primal a female force of nature as this woman was.

  Thinking he’d picked a hell of a time to send his deputy Nolan Swallows on an errand across town, Mackenzie had been about to grab a rifle and deal with this army of ruffians holding a helpless female captive when he recognized the unmistakable face of the lady he had seen on a good many wanted posters the last few years. Recognizing who she was, the marshal realized these men were bounty hunters who had captured the notorious outlaw Bonny Kate Valance and were bringing her in for the reward.