by Eric Red
“Then?” He spoke through clenched teeth now.
“I lost him. He got away.” Bess shouldered her canteen.
“Funny. We didn’t hear no gunshots.”
“Because there weren’t any. I was trying to take him alive.”
“You expect me to believe that?” the leader snarled. Bess shrugged, turning her back on the posse and began walking back the way she came. “Where you think you’re going, Marshal?” his voice called after her.
She tossed her reply over her shoulder at him like discarded wastepaper. “After him. You boys coming?”
“Wait up.”
Bess stopped but didn’t turn around, placing her hands on her hips, looking down at her boots impatiently in a posture that said they better hurry it up because she had better things to do. It was all an act and Bess figured she was playing the part pretty well so far, except her stomach was queasy with tension and churned like bubbling molasses. She tapped her toe, acting even more impatient as she listened to the chorus of boots coming up behind her, until a big shadow fell over her face and she looked up to see Frank Butler step in front of her to block her way. Bess looked into his cold dead eyes staring back at her above his black handlebar mustache a foot from her face.
“Which way did he go?” Butler asked calmly.
“West,” she replied less calmly.
He just grinned.
She blinked first.
Then Butler had his Colt Dragoon revolver out of his holster and huge barrel jammed up under her jaw so quick it choked her intake of breath.
He lost the grin.
The leader of the bounty killers spun Bess around and pinned her wrists behind her back with fearful strength using his free hand, while his other kept the gun to her chin. He looked to his gang.
“Take her guns. Tie her up. She’s coming with us.”
CHAPTER 33
The horse named Copper knew it would find him.
That in the end Copper’s long journey would take it back to his friend was as much a positive certainty for this stallion as knowing the barn would be there when it came back would be for another horse.
The man was such a long way away the stallion could barely see him. A far-off tiny figure climbing down the hill was all that the horse could make out from where it stood but that was him, all right: Copper recognized the color of his clothes and his large body shape and something about the way his friend moved.
The steed’s gut simply told him it was Joe Noose.
There had been another person with the man, a woman who had left and gone the other way, so now it was just his friend.
All the way across the rolling plain stood the bronze stallion; a huge expanse of land lay between the spot its hooves stood on and the distant hill where the tiny figure of his friend came slowly and surely in his direction. Copper had been resting, exhausted from trotting at a vigorous clip during its search, picking up the pace in recent hours when it couldn’t find his friend after looking everywhere and beginning to fret it never would. Just that morning, the horse had found the exact spot where he and his friend got separated after they tumbled when the man came out of the saddle and the horse fell in the river—but his friend was nowhere in sight. Since then, Copper had followed the many horse tracks nearby that had led it here. Now, laying eyes on his friend again, the horse experienced a unique and particularly equine joy, a bond and connection filling the stallion’s heart with a fulfilling sense of purpose and belonging that felt like drinking water when it was very thirsty, its insides empty but now filled.
The horse considered walking toward his friend to close the gap between them and hasten their reunion, but the man was heading his way, getting closer though still far off and would be back in the saddle soon enough. Besides, for the horse there were other considerations—the cool spot of shade Copper was standing in felt nice on his coat after running under the hot sun all day and the tree that the horse stood beside had apples. The gorgeous bronze stallion was in the process of reaching its head up and biting into a sweet and juicy one that exploded with delicious flavor in its mouth when it noticed his friend had stopped walking and now just stood. Then he did something Copper couldn’t understand:
His friend was walking again but had turned around and was going back in the other direction.
The way the girl went.
* * *
Bess felt the cold press of circular metal against the base of her chin. She felt the pressure of the muzzle increase and heard the snick of the hammer pulled back. She would have recognized Butler’s smell even if he wasn’t a foot from her face.
“We’ll take those pistols, little lady,” he said in a dead voice.
Bess’s hands hovered, twitching, an inch from her father’s twin Colt Peacemakers in their holsters on her belt but nobody was that fast—the cocked pistol against her neck was now on a hair trigger and the bullet would explode through her throat before she even touched, let alone drew, her guns.
Her stomach sank.
This was bad.
She’d been made.
“What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Butler? I’m an acting U.S. Marshal.”
“I already shot one marshal. Killin’ two don’t make no difference to me. Hell, two marshals would be a matched pair.”
Bess’s blood froze.
He’d admitted it.
“You shot my father. Not Noose . . .” Her voice came out of her tense throat as a dry rasp. Bess stared straight ahead, frozen in place, trying not to cry.
She saw his teeth glint in a cold chuckle.
“That’s right, little girl.” Butler loomed before her as he took a step closer, keeping his revolver jammed against her jawbone. The cold barrel against her skin suddenly felt colder to her, like ice against her flesh . . . it felt colder because there was no way this man would have admitted to the crime if he was going to let her live. He spoke again, slowly and calmly. “Now, I’m going to take your pistols. If you move to stop me, I’ll blow your head clean off.”
Bess nodded and kept her eyes on his face. There was the sound of a scrape of metal on leather and the weight on the left side of her belt lightened as she felt the bounty killer remove the gun. Then she heard the rustle of leather as it was jammed in his belt. “You’re gonna kill me anyway,” Bess said, jaw set, looking forward. “You just admitted you killed the marshal to a sworn law enforcement officer. That reward’s on your head now. If you think I’m gonna keep it quiet, then—”
“You ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to nobody, sister.” Her second pistol was pulled from her right holster and Bess was unarmed. “Tie her hands.”
The last comment was to his men, and Culhane and Lawson quickly came over with a lariat and, grabbing Bess’s arms so she couldn’t move, lassoed the rope around her wrists and pulled it tight enough to cut off the circulation. Seconds later, they had the rope wound around her forearms and her arms tied off.
Frank Butler lowered his gun to waist level, keeping the long barrel pointed at the female marshal’s midriff, and jerked his head to his gang.
With the captive in tow, they spent the next five minutes walking in silence back up the ravine. Bess could feel Butler right behind her and didn’t need to look back to know his Colt Dragoon was aimed point-blank at her spine. That hammer was still cocked. As she walked, sometimes receiving a push from her captors, her arms tied in front of her, Bess looked left and right, trying to think of what to do but came up with nothing. She was screwed. Then before she knew it, they had reached the spot where the horses were tethered on the bleak trail.
“Put her on her horse,” Butler ordered standing by his saddle. “She’s coming with us.”
The two bounty killers Culhane and Lawson shoved Bess across the grass to her grazing riderless dun-colored quarter horse. Both of the men were enjoying pushing her around and Bess flinched as one of the thugs, she couldn’t see who, grabbed her denimed buttocks with his thick hands and hoisted her up by the behind while the other
lifted her boot into a stirrup, heaving her unceremoniously into the saddle. The two pairs of dirty hands that helped her up on the horse groped her as they did. The young woman recoiled in disgust, tossing her hair out of her face. How was she going to get out of this? she wondered. The answer came fast: she wasn’t. When Bess was settled in the saddle, her roped hands in her lap, Butler climbed onto his malevolent black stallion, rode over, and came up to her, stopping his horse alongside.
She held his malignant gaze, scared to death but trying not to show it.
“Reckon you won’t be needin’ this anymore,” the bounty killer said. Reaching over with his leather-gloved hand, Butler plucked the seven-star silver marshal’s badge from her shirt and tossed it in the dirt by the hoof of his horse.
Bess Sugarland’s face suddenly colored. “That was my father’s badge,” she screamed.
And spat in Frank Butler’s face.
The mask of shock and surprise his face became as saliva dripped down his handlebar mustache was worth getting killed for, Bess thought recklessly. The leader was at a disadvantage for a few brief seconds but the sweet moment didn’t last long.
A few of the gang whistled and hooted at their female prisoner’s nerve in spitting on their leader, laughing even louder knowing what she would get in return. Butler flew into a rage and swung furiously in his saddle on the men who laughed, and they shut up fast as in the same movement he spun back on the woman on the horse beside him, pulling back his gloved fist, and punched her savagely in the face.
Bess held his gaze fiercely as the blow came.
When it did, it nearly broke her jaw.
Her head was sledgehammered sideways, blood flying from her lips and splattering her tossing hair. The force of his fist nearly knocked her clean out of the saddle, but she stayed on, blinding pain shooting up the side of her face. When she looked back, her vision swam and she could not see anything but his black-eyed stare locked psychotically with her own. His clenched fist remained raised, poised to strike again.
“Go to hell,” an unblinking Bess hissed to his face.
Then Butler cracked a yellow-tooth grin, taking her measure. “I’ll say hi for ya,” he chuckled, nodding appreciatively.
Dropping her gaze, Bess broke the staredown with Butler, digging deep to not cry, because she would have preferred the bullet she expected rather than have these scum see her weak like that. Butler knew this, she understood, because now she felt weak and debased, unarmed and captive. The lasso pinned her arms to her side, and her wrists were roped. Bess couldn’t do anything but sit the horse. She was helpless, and when she finally gathered the grit to raise her gaze to meet Butler’s again she saw the sadistic gleam of enjoyment in his eyes at bringing her low.
Then the clapping hands, chicken clucks, wolf whistles, and shouts of derision reached her ears on all sides as the gang of bounty killers mocked her. Bess grimaced in the saddle and avoided their gaze.
A piercing whistle from the leader shut the gang of vultures right up. “Daylight’s wasting and we got a reward to catch, boys.”
The rest of the gang mounted their horses.
Leather touched her hands and Bess Sugarland saw that Frank Butler had pressed her horse’s reins into her fingers. He was leaning across over her saddle, his face an inch from hers and she felt his hot, animal breath but it was that voice of his that scared her as he whispered viciously in her ear.
“Spit on me again and I’ll let my men take turns with you,” Butler growled. He meant it, she could tell. With a violent sweep of his reins, the leader of the bounty killers swung his big black horse about and cantered off down the trailhead.
Bess, now a prisoner, was escorted on horseback by two of the other professional killers, Sharpless and Trumbull, as the gang rode off in single-file procession, relentlessly on the trail of their elusive prey, one Joe Noose.
CHAPTER 34
A half mile away, the bounty killers and their female captive rode along the trail. Butler and his men were keeping a sharp eye out for Noose, and their guns were out and fingers on the triggers.
At least they haven’t shot me yet, she was thinking.
Up in front, Bess rode just behind the leader. She glared at the back of his broad-shouldered leather duster and the wide brim of his black hat, that hat turning with his head left and right in a steady movement as he surveyed their surroundings for their quarry, looking for sign.
The ropes painfully lashed around her wrists binding them together were tight enough to cut off blood circulation to her hands—it was getting difficult to keep the reins in her fingers. Balance in the saddle on the horse was tricky without the use of her arms, but she used her strong hips and long legs in the stirrups to stay mounted.
Bess was relieved that the rest of the gang was behind her and could see only the back of her head. Her swollen face throbbed uncomfortably with each stride of the horse and when she looked down she saw her shirt was soaked with blood dripping from her mouth. It shamed her modesty being in such a state among men like this, but she swallowed it because she had more important things to worry about . . . like her life.
Making a mental checklist as the posse doggedly rode on, Bess knew the first priority was staying alive—the second, because she was a sworn peace officer, was saving the innocent man Noose—the third was killing all these murdering bastards because, lawman or not, she was going to make sure not a single one of them got out of here alive. Bess meant to get her hands on some guns and when she did she would shoot all of them dead. Justice would be delivered with the barrel of a gun. These men deserved to die. She thirsted to kill them herself. If she got the chance.
First priority, she reminded herself, stay alive.
Hearing the impacts of the hooves crunching on the leaves in the dirt, it sounded to Bess like more than there were. Seven of these bounty killers remained but they sounded like fifty, like an army to her. It was because the bullets could start flying at any second, she knew. It was second nature to Bess Sugarland to anticipate problems. Her father had taught her that. The minute these shootists spotted Noose or he spotted them, everybody’s guns would be drawn and fired indiscriminately. Bullets would be flying around her and she would be unarmed and directly in the line of fire. Already the young woman had figured out that when that happened she would throw herself out of the saddle, off the horse, and flatten on the ground, which would be the safest place. Then she remembered the horses’ hooves. The animals would be rearing and running and if she was on the ground unable to move her upper body there was a good chance she would be trampled to death. Bess became lost in her thoughts as she tried to figure out what her next move would be then.
So when Butler spoke to her she was startled. “I know what you’re thinking, sister,” he said without looking back as he rode a few yards ahead. “You’re wondering why we ain’t killed you, wonderin’ why we ain’t done it yet. Yeah, you don’t know why we ain’t killed you yet, I’m bettin’.”
He had read her thoughts.
That made her mad.
But she needed to keep her cool. Listen carefully. Figure out these killers. Get a step ahead of them. “Maybe I am,” she said, just to keep the conversation going.
“I’ll tell ya, then.”
That’s a tell, Bess thought. Butler needs to show he’s smarter than everybody else. He likes to hear himself talk. The young woman suddenly realized she had found a weakness in the leader that she might be able to exploit if she had an opportunity. Bess wore a little smile as she let Butler continue.
“I’m figuring you make good bait. That’s the reason. This Noose fella, he’s a water-walker, a self-righteous, holier-than-thou, do-the-right-thing type of individual. Men like that just piss me off. Right this very hot second as far as he knows he has only his own ass to worry about. He’s running for his life just now, and that’s simple because all he figures he has to do is run hard and fast enough. But here’s the thing, sister: my guess is you change that equation. I’d bet ha
lf the reward money that when Noose knows we got you, when he sees what we’re gonna do to you, he won’t be able to stop himself from coming to rescue you, walkin’ straight into our guns, and that will be his worst mistake and his last one. He’s a hero, and heroes die hard because there ain’t no place for heroes in this world. That’s for damn sure. That’s right, little girl. You’re gonna flush him out for us. Then it’s all gonna be over and we’ll get our money and we’ll be rich.”
But dead, Bess thought. Good luck spending it. “Sounds like you got it all figured out,” she said.
Ahead, the back of Butler’s big hat tilted up and down as he nodded. “Looks like you got some use after all. You gone from bein’ a thorn in my side to my ace in the hole.”
Wrong, Bess thought. I’m going to be the finger on the trigger of the gun shooting the bullet with your name on it.
* * *
If only he had a gun.
A weapon of any kind.
He should have taken the pistol Bess offered.
It had been a mistake not to. Had seemed a bad idea at the time for Bess to risk raising Butler’s suspicion by giving up one of her revolvers, but now she didn’t have any revolvers because Butler had gotten wise to her anyway. The way things had shaken out everything went south anyhow, so while it looked like the wrong thing to do then, if Noose had taken the gun he’d be packing iron now . . . at least one of them would be. Lesson was always have a pistol. It’s always the right choice, never the wrong choice to have one. In the future, if he found himself unarmed and somebody offered him a gun, Noose wouldn’t refuse it for any reason no matter what. But until then he would have to improvise.
Noose peered through the bushes.
Three hundred yards away, down the embankment, the single-file procession of bounty killers made their way out of the tree line along the trail. The men all had their guns out and he saw the movements of their faces turning as they looked everywhere for him. Joe Noose made damn sure he kept his head down.
When he saw the woman on the horse riding with them his stomach lurched, seeing her hands were tied even before noticing her badge was gone. The marshal’s daughter was their prisoner now.