by Eric Red
Wasn’t giving up.
Just hoping his shaky legs wouldn’t, either.
Bess wasn’t moving, her lithe body hot and soft and draped around his massive shoulders. Her small breasts were pressed against his upper back and in their firmness the cowboy could feel she was still breathing. He felt her sweet breath against his right cheek where her head slumped sideways, her face down, left ear toward his.
As he trudged relentlessly forward toward the inaccessible bridge to safety he knew they would never reach, life felt suddenly precious to Joe Noose, who knew in a few minutes he was going to die.
If these moments were to be his last, do some good, be a man—give this strong and brave woman some hope and carry her as far as you can.
Trudging determinedly across the valley, Noose turned his head toward Bess’s face. He brushed his lips by her ear and spoke to her purposefully. “I will let no harm befall you. I will keep you safe. Nobody’s gonna hurt you, not while I’m around. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, Marshal,” he repeated. “You’re going to be okay, Bess Sugarland.” And as he repeated it he realized he was making a promise and a vow and keeping a promise is right and breaking a vow is wrong and the brand on his chest began to burn like the red-hot metal was pressed there again like a forge and it owned a power that began to course through Joe Noose and a renewed strength filled his huge legs that stomped ever forward.
“. . . We gotta get to the bridge, that’s all. When we get to the bridge that’s where I end them. You’re wondering how, well, I’ll tell ya.” Bess was half-conscious and not doing any talking, her head slumped on his shoulder, so he held up both ends of the conversation, hoping she could hear him. “The bridge, y’see, it’s very narrow, maybe eight feet wide, so only one horse at a time can cross. That’s good for us but bad for a gang of men, because they have to ride single file across that bridge high over that fast river. One man with a rifle can pick ’em off from the shoreline. On that bridge they’re exposed and trapped, wide out in the open, and if I shoot fast and true enough, they won’t know what hit ’em. They can’t turn their horses on that bridge so can’t turn back and can’t run except to jump off the bridge and I can pick ’em off in the river like fish in a barrel. Most likely what’ll happen when I start unloading on them is those horses they’re riding will panic and rear, cause the others to panic front and back, and not one of those dirty miserable sons of bitches will be able to draw a gun let alone get a shot off. I just got to get us to the bridge, then get us across it and find me some cover on the other side with a good vantage on the bridge, yeah, that’s all I gotta do.”
Noose didn’t know if Bess was listening, but he kept talking because he needed to.
“. . . Then I just got to aim carefully so I don’t hit the horses. I never shoot a horse. Hate any man who shoots a horse. Hate it when any horse gets shot. It ain’t their fault. Ain’t the horse that’s bad, it’s the man riding it.”
The cowboy kept on walking under his heavy load, beyond endurance, pushing forward long past any hope of reaching his destination. He forged on in raw stubborn perseverance. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time, but so many steps to go . . . too many.
“. . . That’s my plan. Savvy it’s a good one?”
She didn’t answer. He didn’t know if Bess was listening.
All Noose knew was it was a good plan.
And all he was thinking as he staggered across the uneven ground and thick grass on legs so weary they barely held him up, all he thought as he held the limp woman on his shoulders no matter how bad it hurt his busted ribs, was that bridge was just too damn far.
He could see it now up ahead, the rickety wooden span of the bridge with its rope railings and supports that looked hammered together with spare wood. It was a mile away if it was an inch. On foot, carrying the weight of an unconscious woman, it would take him an hour to get there. Another ten minutes to get across.
The thundering hooves of Frank Butler and the vicious dregs of his gang of murderers grew louder behind him. He wanted to look back but couldn’t turn with Bess on his back, not and keep walking. He didn’t need to look back—his ears told him the horses were on the valley floor and galloping in his direction. Noose didn’t hear any gunshots, which was strange because he gauged their distance close enough for him to be an easy target. But he knew why. Butler wasn’t going to shoot him in the back, not make it easy for Noose like that, nor Bess, either. Frank Butler wanted them to see it coming: he would be looking them straight in the eyeballs when he pulled the trigger that ended them so the last thing on earth they saw was his face.
In every problem there is an opportunity. That meant Noose had a few minutes more before they caught up.
But it didn’t matter.
He had run out of time.
It was then his legs gave out under him and he dropped to his knees on the grass.
Bess hung over his shoulders like a sack of cornmeal, her blood all over him.
Joe Noose hung his head.
Set the woman gently down on the grass.
He couldn’t feel the brand in his chest anymore, just a numbness around the scar.
The battery of hooves behind him was louder but had slowed their pace it sounded like, as the killers took their time, savoring the end of the hunt and about to pleasure themselves in the good, bad kill.
* * *
The horse came suddenly out of nowhere, at full gallop, to his right.
Noose saw the steed in the corner of his eye at first—the golden bronze of its mane and withers agleam like armor on the stallion. The cowboy swung his head to look straight into the face of his old friend Copper, saddle still soaked from the river the horse was being washed away down the last time they saw each other. Man and horse locked eyes and then Noose grinned savagely because that horse whose life he once saved was now returning the favor and rushing to the rescue at a juggernaut gallop across the valley. Noose had never seen a horse move so damn fast. It was less than a hundred yards away, now fifty. Bess was on her hands and knees, her opening eyes watching the approaching mustang in a hushed awe. Damn, the horse was smart. Copper slowed his clip for just a few seconds as it reached Noose and Bess, and the cowboy was ready for him, already hoisting the injured woman up onto the saddle as the stallion broke back into a full gallop just as Noose heaved himself into the saddle behind Bess and jammed his boots into the stirrups.
And then they were off.
Instantly, Copper pulled away and ahead from the Butler Gang’s horses.
Giving the reins a quick tug, Noose steered Copper toward the bridge but the horse seemed to know that’s where they were going. The cowboy gave the stallion a little spur and the horse near doubled its hurtling gallop with great reaching strides of front and back pairs of legs. Horse and rider understood each other intuitively. Bess was securely straddling the saddle, and Noose had one hand on her as he held the reins while his other hand unslung the Winchester rifle from its strap and he spun it around his hand, cocking the lever as he did.
Throwing a steely glance over his shoulder, Noose saw the hard-riding bounty killers falling back, horses unable to keep up with Copper—it was as if the abused, browbeaten other horses were unnerved by the transformative rebirth of their old stablemate and just plain rattled by it. By now the bullets had started flying. Noose saw the flashing muzzles and heard cracks of gunshots of the gang’s weapons. He was getting away and nobody was worried about shooting him in the back now. He smiled. But the bullets went wild because Butler and his boys were having trouble aiming with any accuracy at full gallop, shooting at a moving target.
The Winchester was clenched unfired in Noose’s hand—he was saving his bullets for when they would count—right across the bridge on the opposite shore.
Copper charged tirelessly, blindingly fast like a bolt of bronze lightning across the cleft of the valley where it met the Snake River, and now the bridge was in clear view, less than a quarter mile ahead. Noose could sme
ll the river in the air now, a muddy and fresh wet scent that filled his nostrils and lungs like pure oxygen. Bess’s hair was whipping in the wind, as the ride seemed to be reviving her. The pounding drumbeat of the stallion’s hooves drowned out the fading sounds of the posse who were falling ever farther behind as Copper put more and more distance between them. When Noose looked back one last time, he saw the gang was a half mile behind and losing more ground every second.
The bronze horse and two riders galloped across the narrow trail over the grassy uneven ground, the walls of the rugged Wyoming canyons rising up on either side. Overhead, the lead sky was cloudless and the light unforgiving and metallic.
He knew it was there just beyond his view, then suddenly he saw it: dead ahead, the trail ended in the wooden boards of the narrow structure that stretched across the Snake River, railed in by two ropes on either side stretched taut with the weight of the scaffolding. The bridge was in poor shape, weather and ramshackle construction contributing to its visible disrepair. And it was small. Only wide enough for one horse to cross . . . and that’s what Joe Noose was counting on.
If they could just make it to the other side, and it didn’t look like anything could stop them now, the evil Frank Butler and his gang of cutthroats were dead men.
If ever men deserved killing it was these villains.
Joe Noose didn’t need his brand to itch to know it was the right thing to do.
Right then the sound of Copper’s hooves on dirt became the sound of hooves on wood as the horse took the bridge and began the crossing of the Snake.
CHAPTER 44
“Yee-ahhh!”
Joe Noose held fast to the saddle, one arm around Bess crumpled in front of him, shielding her with his body as with the other he gripped the horse’s reins. The animal was straining as it charged forward at a full gallop.
The bounty killers were not far behind.
Before him, Noose’s view of the bridge jounced and vibrated with the beat of the horse’s hooves.
The injured Bess was in bad shape and he could feel the weakness in her body beneath his bicep but he held her fast. Her gumption was draining with her strength. The wound had to be tended to in a proper hospital.
She was going to live.
He was going to make sure of it.
But that meant he couldn’t die, either.
Noose gritted down his teeth as he heard the hooves of his stallion impact the wooden boards and the narrow expanse of bridgework rushed past below him as on either side far below down past the rope railings, the great Snake River coursed wide and fast.
A bullet whistled past his head.
The gang of bounty killers were coming, hot on his heels, a few hundred yards back up the trail in a noxious cloud of rampaging hooves and kicked-up dust the cowboy saw as he swung his head to look over his shoulder, then swung it back again to steer his galloping horse on the narrow bridge. Noose was halfway across now, Bess slumped against his arm, and with luck they would make it.
As long as the horse didn’t get shot.
Or slip.
The other side of the riverbank drew ever closer.
Pow! Pow!
The insectile whine of a round buzzed past his head and there was a puff of dirt on the bank ahead as it impacted in the ground.
The end of the bridge rushed up in his field of view, then his fast horse was cantering over soft earth and they had crossed the river.
Noose had to move fast.
Even as the cowboy swung out of the saddle of the slowing horse, he could hear the hooves of the gang slowing as they approached the bridge on the opposite bank. As Noose’s boots hit the ground he was already half hauling the bronze stallion down a small ridge. While he sprinted, holding Bess in the saddle and leading Copper, Noose was gripping his Winchester tight. Finding safe cover below the edge of the hill, he tied the animal off on a tree and made sure that the woman was safely situated in the saddle. Levering the repeater rifle, Noose scampered back up the hill, poking his head over the edge and staying low as he got a clear view of the bridge and the gang of marauders preparing to cross it.
Raising his Winchester to his eye, Joe Noose rested the barrel comfortably and securely on the ridge of grassy dirt, squinted down the crosshairs of the gunsight, and knew this was going to be a turkey shoot.
Four bounty killers were about to have a very bad day.
The posse of four horses had slowed to a crawl as the Butler Gang had to proceed across the constricted rickety wooden bridge in single-file formation. Butler was in the lead but his big yet weary black stallion didn’t like the bridge one bit . . . despite the bloodthirsty leader kicking it in the sides with his spurs—a brutality to the animal that fueled Noose’s fury—the horse took the bridge one tentative step at a time. The mean stallion didn’t like the height or the unsteady footing of the old boards its hooves cautiously trod upon and, though it obeyed its master, took its time and advanced slowly. Behind Butler, the other three horses and wounded riders couldn’t go any faster because they were behind his stallion and couldn’t pass it.
Noose was calm and in no hurry.
His patient finger rested taut on the trigger.
Waiting for all the horses to get on the bridge.
He had clear and easy shots now at the gang but needed to pick the exact right moment.
Noose didn’t want to hit any horses if he could avoid it . . . none of this was their fault.
* * *
On Copper’s saddle a few yards away, Bess Sugarland looked groggily up and saw the lone figure of Joe Noose with his Winchester fixed to his shoulder as he took position on the hill, and she could hear the approaching hooves of the gang’s horses on the bridge even though she could not yet see them. The woman feared the worst.
“Noose . . .” she gasped.
He couldn’t hear her. As his finger tightened on the trigger the loud crack drowned out all other sound.
The last bounty killer bringing up the rear, Wingo, flew out of the saddle, a fist-sized hole in his chest.
Noose recocked the lever of the Winchester in less than a second and by the time the surprised bounty killers had their guns raised he’d put a second round in Trumbull’s upper body. Screaming in pain, blood gushing from his ruined shoulder, Trumbull shot blindly, shooting at flies.
By now, the three last bounty killers had all realized the grave mistake they had made riding horses single file on a very narrow bridge because those same horses had started to panic and rear. Sharpless and Trumbull tried to manage them from the saddles but their stallions couldn’t turn in the confines of the structure—there was no retreat and they couldn’t go forward, either, because the lead horse, Butler’s, had frozen. The faces of the gang were masks of pure terror as they realized they were trapped, sitting ducks.
Frank Butler alone had pinpointed the location of Noose’s firing position and was trading fire at him straight-armed with his Colt Dragoon, but the cowboy was safely bunkered behind the crest of the opposite hill and his enemy’s bullets struck uselessly in the dirt. Behind Butler, Sharpless and Trumbull were trying to get the hell off the bridge but Wingo’s stallion prevented their retreat as it staggered and stumbled with the dead body of its rider caught in the stirrups—the only way was forward and Butler was still blocking them. The two men yelled for their leader to clear the way but Butler’s stallion was rearing and pawing the air with its hooves even as its master viciously kicked it in the flanks with his spurs, drawing gushes of blood.
Two more of Noose’s shots busted loose. The first bullet hit Sharpless between the eyes and the back of his head, exploded in a splattering crater of skull and brains. In all the violence and pandemonium Noose’s second shot sadly slammed into the side of the dead man’s horse, killing it as dead as its owner. Sharpless’s corpse slumped in the saddle as his stallion’s lifeless legs collapsed on the shaking bridge amidst the turmoil and the two of them tumbled against the rope, snapping it like a whiplash, toppling the dead
horse and rider over the side. Both fell fifty feet off the sheep bridge down into the surging flow of the Snake River, a splashing impact that shot a volcanic geyser of water skyward as man and horse sank below the sweeping rapids now coloring a spreading red shade.
Noose was going to get them all.
He knew it.
The last stand on the bridge was going to be the end of all of these murderous sons of bitches and the cowboy shot clean and true, again and again. Cocking, firing, recocking and firing, Noose cranked the lever of the Winchester and pulled the trigger over and over, empty shells slewing from the breech, his steely eyes peering down the barrel of the repeater rifle smoking and hot in his hands, as blood exploded on the bounty killers on the bridge.
Trumbull took a round in the arm and dropped his gun as his hand went limp, his stallion jerking sideways, eyes widened and mouth frothing, its hooves slipping on the boards and losing purchase by the snapped rope and gap where Sharpless’s horse had just tumbled through. The front legs of the horse slid off the blood-slick platform and its back legs followed a moment later. Then the wounded bounty killer and his pawing horse plunged from the bridge and were plummeting upside down through dead air toward the big river.
Noose swung the muzzle of the Winchester. Taking quick and deadly aim, Noose blew Trumbull’s head clean off and the killer was dead before he hit the rapids. The rushing sheet of the surface of the Snake River was now turning a florid crimson.
From her bleary vantage point in the saddle, the weakened Bess smiled as she saw Noose had the bounty killers boxed in and was taking them out one by one. She couldn’t shoot herself, not in her wounded state, although she wished she could. The man’s deadly skill with a rifle was a fearsome thing to behold and it took her breath away.
A loud ricochet flashed near Noose’s head as one of Butler’s bullets zinged off a rock and showered his face with stone fragments, and Noose knew he needed to finish this.
Centering his rifle and levering the handle, he shot Frank Butler in his left side, the impact of the slug turning the leader’s shirt a swash of red as it catapulted the screaming man clean off the saddle, dumping him in a heap onto the floor of the bridge. Butler’s own furious horse’s kicking rear hooves trampled the wooden boards and its stomping front hooves nearly crushed the leader’s legs as he rolled out of the way but Noose put a stop to that for two reasons: