The Crimson Trail

by Eric Red

  By the time he reached the area where the outfits’ horses were tied, the rider, whoever he was, was gone. By now Noose’s eyes had adjusted sufficiently to the darkness where he could see the remuda standing in the stillness. He counted them. Sixty-one including Copper; there were no new animals, so the rider was not an outsider, he had been riding one of the outfit’s horses.

  One of the rovers had ridden out of camp in the middle of the night, so his departure from the outfit would not be detected, and now he had returned. Where had he gone, wondered Joe, and why the secrecy?

  Figuring he could tell which of the wranglers had been out for a midnight ride if he could find the horse and place it to its owner, Joe wasn’t sure where to begin, until he felt a warm snout nuzzle him on the shoulder and looked over to see the bronze shape of his best friend Copper, whose warm brown eyes were locked to his master in the gloom. The stallion tossed his head to the right several times, trying to tell him something.

  Noose followed Copper’s gaze.

  Three horses stood a few feet away.

  Copper exhaled and nudged his snout at the horses, and Joe immediately understood. With a grin, he patted his steed’s head and made his way over to the three horses tied to the wagon.

  Touching his hand to the flanks of the first, it was cool as the night air.

  He touched the second mare, whose haunches were also cool.

  When Noose placed his palm on the third horse, a black stallion, the flesh was warm to the touch and lathered with sweat, freshly ridden and reeking of exertion.

  Near the hooves lay several saddles, stowed on the ground. Crouching down, it didn’t take long using the touch test to determine which saddle had just been ridden by the warmth of the leather.

  Joe struck a match. Cupping his hand to hide the flash of flame, he lifted the saddle and looked beneath it.

  Saw what was stamped in the leather on the underside.

  Noose glared at the Bar T insignia under the saddle and felt his blood boil. It was the Calhoun brand. Joe hated the Bar T and everything it represented; the Calhoun Cattle Company had been founded in Texas with a thousand longhorns and now claimed over a million head, monopolizing the cattle business in several Western states and recently setting their sights on Wyoming. Bar T was a criminal syndicate, nothing less.

  But it didn’t used to be until the old man, Thomas Calhoun, retired and his evil son, Crispin Calhoun, took control of the Bar T and started doing things his way. The younger Calhoun’s ruthless depredations disgraced the family name and drove his father into an early grave. Now, many years later, Crispin Calhoun still sat on the throne of the Bar T. His mighty cattle dynasty was richer and more powerful than ever as he expanded his empire into Wyoming. Bar T was advancing like the Roman army, forcing local ranchers off their property and acquiring their land and cattle by any means necessary, including extortion, intimidation, rustling, and, so it was rumored, cold-blooded murder. Crispin Calhoun intended to control the cattle business in the United States and took even the smallest independent ranch holding out against him as a personal affront, a threat he had to crush. And he did, again and again.

  In the past, when Noose heard the stories about the villainous cattle baron, he felt his branding scar getting hotter against his flesh as his blood boiled in fury at the injustice of this wealthy and dangerous villain’s crimes against defenseless hardworking folks, which continued to go unchecked. Bribing his way out of countless criminal convictions and jail time by paying off judges and lawmen, Crispin Calhoun threw money at law enforcement to look the other way because the cattle baron figured he had enough money to buy anything, but he figured wrong: Noose wasn’t for sale. Calhoun needed to be stopped and Joe Noose was just the man to do it. Someday soon, Joe had a hunch their paths would cross.

  Just then Noose noticed that the Bar T brand looked different—the T that used to be shaped like an upright cross was upside down, like an inverted crucifix; Crispin Calhoun had changed the brand, but why?

  Joe Noose reckoned the satanic implications of an upside-down cross was fitting, because Crispin Calhoun was as close to the Antichrist as a soul could get.

  * * *

  Dawn broke.

  Wylie Jeffries’s lonely grave lay undisturbed on the wide-open plain beneath a gunpowder sky. The wind blew across the plain, wafting granules of dirt from the plot onto the muddy imprints of the long-departed cattle and horses.

  Then came the sound of hooves.

  Fifteen horses passed along on the same route, following the trail of the cattle drive. Sixty dirty hooves pounded over the dead wrangler’s grave, punching deep grooves in the dirt, heading southeast in the direction of those they followed, until soon the horses were gone.

  Jeffries stayed dead.

  CHAPTER 11

  Far away, U.S. Marshal Bess Sugarland arrived home to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. She stopped first at the grave of her father, the late U.S. Marshal Nate Sugarland who was killed in the line of duty two years before. His plot and headstone lay in a small local cemetery in a nearby valley called Solitude, a place as empty and peaceful as the name implied, which looked out on the Teton mountain range towering up against limitless sky. It was a humble graveyard surrounded by a small black corrugated fence below an unmarked metal archway, where inside a several-hundred-foot-square area were thirty-five gravestones and head markers laid out in uneven rows. Bess came to this peaceful place often for she felt close to her father here, and here she could talk to him, or at least his spirit.

  Walking up to the gravestone, the marshal took off her hat, happy to be back.

  “Hi, Pop. Been a few months since my last visit. Sorry it’s been so long. Was on a job. Marshal business. Knew you’d understand the badge comes first. You always told me that. Duty first to public safety was always your motto. Anyways, we got our man and I just got back to Jackson today, so the first thing I wanted to do was come see you, because it’s been a while and I’ve missed our talks, Pop. Where do I start?”

  When Bess spoke to her late father she was carrying on a regular conversation with him; not that she didn’t accept her dad had passed, simply that she chose to keep him alive in her heart. Her way of doing that was talking to him like she always had. Resting her head on her father’s gravestone, the marshal smiled as she felt the fragrant spring breeze waft her hair, and it seemed she caught a whiff of her old man’s leathery scent.

  “Since I put on this badge I’ve learned how lucky I was, Pop. My father was Nate Sugarland, the best U.S. Marshal in the country, and you taught me everything I know. Most men who take this job have to learn how to be a marshal through hard firsthand experience, where a mistake can kill you, out there all alone. But not me. I was never alone because I had you. I always felt safe. Learned how to do this job by watching you ever since I was a kid, then learned hands-on when I became your deputy. You taught me the ropes, Pop. Nobody gets training like that. It’s our family business. Always had confidence, and it all came from you believing in me. You made me the best U.S. Marshal I can be, and every day I try to do you proud.”

  Bess wrapped her coat tighter around her shoulders as a sweeping wind tore down the plain and blew away the flowers somebody had set on a nearby grave. The metal C-E-M-E-T-A-R-Y letters rattled above on the wrought-iron gate. She held on to her hat as she stood amidst the headstones and basked in the atmosphere of the lovely little graveyard in the shadow of the gargantuan Teton mountain range rearing in the west, snowcapped granite peaks so high they vanished into the clouds. The valley was alive with carpets of yellow flowers. The air smelled clean and fresh. Solitude was the place on earth her outdoorsman father loved best; it was where he came to hunt and fish, sometimes with his daughter, often alone, and in this sprawling valley Nate Sugarland was the happiest. It was why she buried him here. When she visited his grave, Bess Sugarland always felt close to her father, here in this beautiful place.

  A radiance of sunlight created by the colossal clouds parting overhead ha
d lit up her father’s tombstone, as if by providence, the very moment Bess Sugarland walked beneath the cemetery gate, like the finger of God had touched her old man’s grave in a ray of divine evanescence. Now, a few minutes later, a bank of darker clouds passed over the sun and the pretty light faded, and with it the marshal’s joyous mood, shadows descending on the cemetery and doubts descending on Bess’s soul, like a dark veil inside and outside her.

  She came here to talk to her father, but he was dead.

  It was just her.

  And Bess suddenly felt very alone.

  The young woman mostly never got lonely.

  Not when Joe Noose was around.

  But he was far, far away now, clear across Wyoming.

  So to chase away the doubts, Bess did what she always did, and talked to her father. Settling on her posterior, the marshal leaned back against the headstone, tilting her face to the wind. She winced, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. “I’m jealous.” She opened her eyes and exhaled. “There, I said it, Pop, OK?”

  Head laid against the gravestone, Bess plucked a dandelion and stuck the flower stem between her lips, closed her eyes, and was silent, breathing in the fresh air and listening to the winds on the plain; in them or inside herself she listened to the voice of her father only she could hear.

  “You know very well who I’m jealous of. That beautiful blond cattle lady with that sexy way about her that makes Joe look at her the way he does. Joe chose going with Laura Holdridge on her cattle drive instead of coming back here to Jackson with me, where he belongs. And I’m sore about it, Pop. That woman got her hooks in him. I hate it.”

  Breathing in the fresh air, Bess shut her eyes again and communed with spirits of the dead. Now and again she spoke to herself. “Why are you asking me why it bothers me, Joe being with Laura, Pop? You know damn well why I don’t want Joe Noose with her.”

  She spat out the flower.

  “Because I want Joe with me.” Bess grabbed her hair in both hands and scrunched it up in her fists. She reflected and expelled a wistful, relieved sigh. “No, I’m not really jealous, Pop. Yes, I know Joe doesn’t love Laura. He’s not going to fall in love with her. Joe’s in love with me. I’m the one for him. Like he’s the one for me. We both know it. But Joe won’t kiss me, Pop, he won’t touch me no matter how much I want him to. And I know he wants to. It’s because of you, Pop, though it ain’t your fault. Joe feels it’s his fault you got killed, because if he hadn’t gone after Frank Butler and those villainous bounty killers, Butler wouldn’t have shot you. Joe blames himself. He feels it’s on him I lost my father. Of course it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t nobody’s fault but the man who pulled the trigger, Frank Butler. But Joe’s gonna spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to me and have my back. Whenever he gets romantic feelings, he feels he’s taking advantage of me, which I know is the last thing he’d ever do, Pop. What would you say to Joe if you were here? I wish Joe was here. I miss him something fierce. Joe Noose is the man for me. You’d have really liked him, Pop. He’s a good man who fights for what he believes, who knows the difference between right and wrong, and there’s no lying in him. He’s fearless like you. Lord knows you don’t have to worry about Joe treating me good, because all he ever thinks about is being good to me. I love Joe, Pop. With all my heart. And I think Joe loves me, too. Loving each other ain’t the problem. The problem is us ever doing anything about it.”

  She leaned her head back against the stone. “Got any advice for me, Pop?” She cracked a grin and chuckled. “Go to work, huh? Hell, I knew you’d say that.”

  Getting up off the ground, Bess kissed Nate’s headstone, brushed the dirt off the seat of her jeans, pulled back her hair, and strode confidently out the gate to her horse. Swinging into the saddle, the marshal shined her badge with her sleeve, tugged the reins to swing her chestnut mare around, and took off at a determined gallop to the town of Jackson a few miles away.

  * * *

  The town hadn’t changed when Marshal Bess rode in. When she walked back into the U.S. Marshal’s office the place looked the same as when she left it. Nobody was there but Deputy Nate Sweet, sitting at his desk writing reports. He looked up as she sat down at her desk and all he said was, “It’s been quiet, Marshal.”

  That was all the welcome back Marshal Bess Sugarland needed.

  It was not quiet for long.

  The three men who barged into Marshal Bess’s office an hour later were mad as hell, saying they had business that needed to be taken care of right away. She turned from her desk to the men, all of whom she knew, ready to be town marshal again. “Zachary, Moses, and Levi, what can I do for you boys?”

  “I want my wife, Marshal,” Zachary Laidlaw boomed in the minister’s oratory delivery he used from the pulpit of the Lutheran church on Sundays. His voice projected, and so did the booze Bess could smell clear across her desk. His eyes were muddy and bloodshot.

  Not liking the look, Bess rose and walked around the table to face them, up close and personal. Leaning her butt back against her desk, she crossed her arms and eyed the three surly men. “Haven’t seen her, but I’ll look around my office and see if she turns up.”

  Laidlaw didn’t laugh, and the minister gave her a look she didn’t appreciate.

  “Well, my humor, I suppose, is pretty rusty, because as you probably noticed I have been away for several months on U.S. Marshals business—a manhunt, in case any of you were wondering—and my able deputy, Nate Sweet, has been handling my duties. That ends today and I hereby resume my full powers and authorities as U.S. Marshal of the town of Jackson. I’m here now, so you boys can just relax while I get everything straight. Minister Laidlaw here is looking for his wife. What are you two here for?”

  “Our wives, they gone, too.”

  “We want ’em back.”

  The look of incredulity Bess Sugarland gave Nate Sweet made her fellow lawman struggle to keep a straight face. “There been a run on spouses while I been gone, Deputy?”

  “So it appears.” Nate chuckled.

  Rearing to his feet, the bristling Minister Laidlaw smashed his clenched fist down on the marshal’s desk in a violent rage. The papers jumped but Bess didn’t. “The point is, Marshal, our wives have run away and we want to know what the hell the U.S. Marshal’s office intends to do about it!”

  The female lawman didn’t blink. “The first thing I’m going to do is break that hand next time you punch my desk, so you won’t be able to read scripture or wipe your ass.”

  He stood, fuming, locking eyes with her, radiating ugly anger.

  “Do I make myself clear?” she snapped.

  Zachary Laidlaw broke the stare-down, standing unsteadily with his fists clenched at his sides in his frugal black ministry cloak, a red net of broken capillaries in his florid face.

  “Sit down and shut up.” The minister sat. “I don’t care if you are a minister, you watch your manners while you’re in the U.S. Marshal’s office, my office, or I’ll teach you some.”

  Looking the three men in the eye each in turn, the marshal elicited cooperative nods from each before continuing. Uncrossing her arms, she leaned back against her desk. “So let’s start over with the part where you three men came in here because your wives ran away.” She took her pad out and scribbled a note with her pencil. “What are your wives’ names?”

  “My wife’s name is Vera.”

  “Vera Laidlaw.”

  “Correct.”

  “Beulah. Beulah Best. I’m Levi Best.”

  “Which is why I’m guessing you both share the same last name,” Bess quipped, shifting her gaze to Moses Farmer. “Your wife is Millicent, everybody calls her Millie. Just so happens I know Millie pretty good. Where’s she gone off to, Mose?”

  “Puzzleface.”

  “Puzzle-what?” the marshal asked.

  “Puzzleface.”

  “What’s that?” Confused, Bess glanced over to Sweet for clarification, and her deputy made a placating gesture wi
th his hands, a worried expression on his face.

  “A lot’s gone on since you been gone, Marshal. I’ll fill you in on the details directly.” The marshal was still watching him. “Puzzleface is a gambler who’s new in town.”

  “They’re shacking up with him!” Levi cried.

  “Puzzleface stole our wives!” Mose choked.

  “It’s a good thing I’m back.” The marshal sighed. “I go away for a few months and the whole town falls apart.” Studying the faces of the angry husbands, Bess considered the whole situation, tapping her boot.

  For a minute or two nobody said a word, then Moses spoke up. “You’re the law in this town, Marshal. I knew your father, Nate, and he was a great lawman.”

  “I know that.”

  “You wear his badge now.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “That badge means it’s your job to enforce the law and get our wives back.”

  “That is not exactly the law, Mose.”

  “It’s the marshal’s job to enforce our rights and bring our wives home.” Mose Farmer fumbled.

  The men were all flustered; the meeting with the marshal clearly had not gone as they expected. The three angry husbands didn’t like the circumspect expression the lady marshal had gotten on her face.

  “What right do you have to force your wife to do something against her will?” Bess asked softly.

  “Husband rights!” Levi sputtered.

  “Property rights,” Minister Laidlaw solemnly declared.

  “Excuse me?” Bess blinked, taken aback.

  “My wife is my property and I want her back.”

  Marshal Bess whistled, shaking her head in disgust. “Well, boys, all I can say is it’s no surprise why your brides ran off on you. I’ll see what I can do about getting them back.” Rising to her feet, the marshal showed the men to the door with a shooing gesture. “Get out of my office while I look into this. Go on and git. My deputy and I will be in touch.” She slammed the door in the husbands’ faces before they could get another word in, muffling their protests, and the sound on the porch of the men’s departing boots shortly followed.