The Crimson Trail

by Eric Red

  The men looked outraged. “You can’t tell us what to do, Deputy!” Laidlaw huffed.

  “Fre-free country!” Best slurred.

  “Keep your hands away from those guns, gentlemen.”

  Nate’s hand rested on the stock of his own revolver; one look in the lawman’s hard and alert eyes was enough for the inebriated men to go nowhere near their own weapons—they weren’t that drunk.

  “Where’s Mose Farmer?”

  Levi stuck his chest out like a stud rooster. “He’s getting his wife, jus’ like we’s doin’.” His words came out garbled by booze.

  “He armed?”

  “Hell yeth Winchester rifle. Pow. The law won’t geth our wifes we’th geth ’em usself.”

  “Shut up. You’re drunk and the only place you’re going is jail to sleep it off.”

  The husbands began yelling and hollering at the deputy at the same time he heard the sound of boots running up the street. The door to the bar burst open and Marshal Bess Sugarland barged in with her Winchester repeater cocked, loaded, and leveled from the hip. “What’s going on here?”

  Deputy Sweet pointed. “These men were fixing to ride out to Puzzleface Ranch, bringing guns to get their wives and shoot Puzzleface. I stopped these two, but one got past me. Sorry, Marshal.”

  “Mose Farmer.” Bess got her face close to Nate’s and sniffed, and he saw her eyes flick to his when she smelled whiskey on his breath.

  “He’s on his way out there now.”

  “You men are under arrest.” Bess pointed her finger in Zachary and Levi’s faces. “The charges are public drunkenness.”

  “You can’t—!”

  “Get their guns, Deputy, while I get the cuffs on ’em.”

  Ten minutes later, after the two U.S. Marshals had the two husbands locked in jail, both lawmen were on their horses galloping for Puzzleface Ranch, praying they were not too late.

  CHAPTER 16

  “We got trouble.” Hearing Laura Holdridge’s yell from her covered wagon as she whistled for her cowpunchers to slow the herd, Joe Noose squinted into the distance and saw them.

  On the horizon a quarter mile ahead, the figures of four mounted lawmen blocked the trail, pinprick metallic flashes of badges, visible at this distance, glinting in the sun. The men cradled rifles openly displayed. One of them in the vanguard had his gloved hand raised for the outfit to stop.

  The wranglers hollered and shouted, steering the cows with their horses and gradually brought the five hundred marching cattle to a complete standstill, an activity that again for Joe brought the avalanche in Destiny to mind, but stop it the outfit did.

  As soon as the cattle drive had halted, the lawman who’d raised his hand rode briskly in their direction. As he got closer, a sheriff’s badge on his sheepskin coat came into view. He pulled up on his Appaloosa directly beside Laura’s wagon. The man’s lean, pinched face was as fierce as a hawk’s, but his manner polite. “I’m John Roberts, sheriff of Rawlins. I take it you’re Laura Holdridge?”

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?” she replied.

  “We’ve received a report that your herd includes stolen cattle, ma’am.”

  “This is all my herd, Sheriff. The Bar H brand.”

  “It’s my duty to check your livestock to confirm that. I’m afraid my deputies and I are going to have to detain you until this matter can be properly investigated.”

  “What possible reason could you have to accuse me of having stolen cattle in my herd?”

  The bounty hunter saw the cattlewoman getting red in the face and tried to catch her eye to warn her to calm down. It was plain to see somehow this was a trick.

  “Well . . .” Sheriff Roberts took off his Stetson and scratched his head. “It’s been reported to me personally that some of these cattle have the Q brand. That particular brand belonged to a rancher named Abraham Quaid down in Consequence, whose cattle had been rustled and Mr. Quaid himself murdered during the theft last year.”

  “Reported by who, may I ask?”

  “We just need to check your cows, ma’am, then if—”

  “It was a man named Cole Starborough told you that, wasn’t it? Earlier today, I’ll wager. Had a posse with him, about fifteen guys. Let me tell you something, Sheriff. Starborough works for Crispin Calhoun, the big cattleman, one of my chief competitors. Calhoun is trying to stop me from getting my herd to Cheyenne for the Cattlemen’s Association auction and he’ll stop at nothing. That posse already dynamited the damn pass back there so I couldn’t get my cattle through, but we did. This so-called report he gave you so you would detain us is nothing but harassment to slow me down. My late husband was Sam Holdridge and we run a reputable ranch at the Bar H, everybody knows that—”

  “Mrs. Holdridge—”

  “Please listen to me, Sheriff. I need to keep moving.”

  “Ma’am, please calm down. Just answer one question for me.”

  “Sure.”

  “Does this herd of yours contain any cattle with the Q brand on them?”

  Joe saw Laura get flustered. “Yes, as it so happens, some of my cattle do have the Q brand. I bought them fair and square and have the bill of sale to prove it.”

  “Do you have it with you, Mrs. Holdridge?”

  “No. It’s back at my ranch in Consequence. Two hundred miles from here. I’m in a hurry, Sheriff. I have two weeks to get these cattle to Cheyenne or I’ll miss the auction.”

  “From who did you purchase these cattle, ma’am?”

  “Judge William Black. He is our district judge in Consequence. I’m sure you can ask him and he’ll verify the sale.”

  Shifting in his saddle, Sheriff Roberts’s posture tightened up. “That would pose a problem because Bill Black was brutally murdered nearly two months ago.”

  “What?” It was news to Laura, if not to Joe.

  “He died under very suspicious circumstances and even if these cattle were legally sold to you by Judge Black, as you say, rustled cattle from a murdered rancher sold to you by a murdered judge is a matter that requires explanation. I need to hold you here for questioning.”

  “Who murdered the judge?” the cattlewoman gasped.

  “We don’t know.” The lawman shrugged.

  “Judge William Black was killed by a fiend they called The Brander. I know. I killed him. My name is Joe Noose.” Joe had slowly ridden over to Sheriff Roberts, who looked at him with a piercing gaze.

  “And exactly who might you be, mister?”

  “I’m a professional bounty hunter. Last December I was enlisted by two U.S. Marshals and together we tracked down this fiend who butchered over a dozen people. They called him The Brander, and I’m sure you heard the name. As it turned out, this lunatic wanted revenge on Judge Black and the local sheriff, Bull Conrad. Both of those men were crooked and accomplices in an organized criminal operation where the sheriff used outlaws to commit crimes and the judge cut them loose, with both Black and Conrad divvying up the stolen loot and property. One of those crimes was rustling the Quaid cattle and killing the old man, Abraham Quaid. That’s why The Brander burned that dirty judge to death with a red-hot branding iron.” There was much more to the story but Joe Noose didn’t tell the rest, doubting the lawman would believe him, even though it was true.

  Not surprisingly, Sheriff Roberts wore a very dubious expression on his face, squinting at Noose. “Anybody who can verify that wild story, Mr. . . .”

  “Noose. Yes, Marshal Bess Sugarland in the U.S. Marshal’s office in Jackson Hole will corroborate the story. I rode with her. I saw the bill of sale Mrs. Holdridge had for the Q-brand cattle, and so did Marshal Sugarland. She’ll tell you the same.”

  The lawman’s stern gaze eased. “She by any chance be Marshal Nate Sugarland’s daughter?”

  “One and the same.”

  Joe could tell that held a lot of water for this peace officer. “Where is the marshal presently?”

  “Back in Jackson, or should be near about now. We split up when I
joined the cattle drive around Wind River a week ago, and it’s about a week’s ride to Jackson from there. Rawlins has a telegraph, right, Sheriff?”

  Roberts nodded.

  “Wire her. Bess’ll tell you these cattle here are not stolen and were legitimately purchased by Mrs. Holdridge, who knew nothing about the deaths of the men involved with the Q-brand cattle rustling and swindle.”

  “I didn’t know, Sheriff, I swear,” agreed Laura.

  “We have a telegraph in town ten miles from here,” the sheriff said. “If we wire Marshal Bess Sugarland and she corroborates Mr. Noose’s version of events, that’s good enough for me, Mrs. Holdridge, and you and your outfit and cattle are free to go. But until then, I require that you remain in my jurisdiction until this matter is sorted out.”

  Joe swapped glances with Laura then looked steadily at Sheriff Roberts. “Well, what the hell are we waiting for?” he said quietly but firmly.

  The lawman turned and rode back toward his men up the trail. The bounty hunter tapped his horse’s flanks with his boots and rode after him.

  The cattlewoman took a deep breath, watching the riders disappearing in the direction of town until their distant figures were out of sight. She hoped Joe Noose would be back soon, and told herself to settle down and be patient. It was not easy. Tying off the reins of the team of wagon horses, she sat on the driver’s bench, looking for a while at her own strong clasped hands folded in her lap. Hands that looked useless to her now. When the trail boss looked up, the six faces of her wranglers were watching her sympathetically from their saddles, waiting to be told what to do next. “Fall out, boys. Grab yourself some coffee. Try not to get too used to sitting on your asses.” Laura Holdridge smiled with an ironic sigh. “We may be here for a while.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Cole Starborough’s posse were resting their horses ten miles away in a deep valley near the county line. They were miles ahead of the cattle drive, and the boss gave his operatives a fifteen-minute break to water the horses and have a smoke. With a few minutes to kill, he had one himself and lit a fine cigar.

  Puffing smoke, Cole walked up to the war wagon.

  To the casual observer it looked like any other freighter wagon a group of cowboys might be pulling, until one took a closer look and saw the sides of the wagon painted to resemble wood were in fact steel-reinforced armor plates. The war wagon was a mobile armory. On the side was engraved the triple-C lettering of the Calhoun Cattle Company.

  Exhaling clouds of cigar smoke, the stogie clamped between his sharp teeth, Starborough pulled open the metal doors and surveyed the weapons within.

  Rows of rifles and pistols and boxes of ammo.

  Crates of dynamite and fuses, the sticks of high explosive wrapped in cylindrical clusters.

  And in the center of all the other stockpiled weaponry, the apple of his eye: a massive, custom-built five-foot-long by four-foot-high munitions case constructed of polished oak. It resembled a small coffin, which was fitting.

  The gentleman henchman ran his hands over the length of the polished wood case with pride. Unbuckling the metal clasps, he lifted the lid, and the metallic reflection of what lay within danced across his eyes wide with lust as he beheld his ultimate weapon.

  A massive Gatling gun lay inside a velvet-carpeted case beside its disengaged folded tripod mount. It was big as a small artillery cannon, which it partially resembled. Behind the huge twelve-barrel rotating cylinder on the firing end were draped .50 caliber cartridge belts flopping out of the breech near the rear hand trigger crank. The gleaming steel was polished to a sheen. Many crates of replacement ammo belts were stacked beside it. More ammo belts were stacked in a separate crate. This latest modern weapon was capable of bringing down a full cavalry detail of men and horses. Fully loaded, the Gatling gun was ready to fire.

  The machine gun was Cole Starborough’s last resort. He would deploy it to annihilate Laura Holdridge and her entire outfit if all else failed.

  The Gatling gun was a dreadful, fearsome weapon. It would reduce the wranglers to piles of meat in a matter of seconds. Even if their bodies were recovered, identification of the human remains would be impossible.

  While he dearly wished it would not come to that, while he hoped he would never have to use the machine gun, as he gazed on the mighty weapon, part of him did.

  If all else failed.

  * * *

  Joe rode Copper alongside Sheriff Roberts three miles north toward the town of Rawlins. The three deputies had been ordered by the sheriff to remain with the outfit and the herd to be sure they stayed put. Noose could see that the straight-arrow, clean-cut local lawman had taken one look at the bounty hunter’s scruffy, longhaired, unshaven appearance and did not believe one word of his story about being enlisted by U.S. Marshals to catch a killer, or that he had been deputized. Roberts said as much on the ride to town.

  “Mister Noose, I think everything you’ve been telling me is a total crock of shit.”

  “It’s all true, Sheriff. Marshal Sugarland will verify it and vouch for me when you telegraph her.”

  “How do you and Marshal Nate Sugarland’s daughter come to know each other?”

  “I killed the men who killed her father.”

  “That so?”

  “That’s so.”

  “The Butler Gang.”

  “Them. I didn’t kill all of them, Bess killed some herself, but I pulled the trigger on Frank Butler, the man who pulled the trigger on her father.”

  “So you’re a big hero.”

  “Not even close.”

  “Well, Nate’s daughter must think you are.”

  “Then she’d be dead wrong. If it wasn’t for me, her dad would still be alive.”

  “How so?”

  “Let’s just say I made an issue out of something with the Butler Gang I probably shouldn’t have and it fell into Nate Sugarland’s jurisdiction and became his duty to deal with, something that if I had to do over again, I’d have left alone.”

  The two rode for a while in silence, crossing a creek, then riding over rolling grassy hills, with pines like green arrowheads rising up the mountains in the west. They picked up the trail two miles east.

  The bounty hunter and the sheriff were riding at a brisk clip, but not fast enough for Joe, who was painfully aware that every hour Laura’s herd was detained delayed them another hour on their journey to Cheyenne, and the outfit was already so far behind. “Sheriff Roberts, you think we can ride mebbe a little faster?”

  “What’s your big hurry?”

  “The outfit back there needs to get to Cheyenne and they’re already running way behind schedule.”

  “Those rovers and cows ain’t going anywhere until I finish my investigation, and if the Jackson marshal doesn’t verify your story, you’ll all be facing charges.”

  “Marshal Bess Sugarland will verify everything.”

  “We’ll see.”

  They passed a wooden sign that said RAWLINS. The trail turned through rows of shady pines and when the horses came out the other side, a small town lay ahead. It was an agricultural town and scattered farms and fields of crops stretched in all directions. Joe could see a grocery and feed store, a few other shops, a stable, a corral for horses and pigs.

  “Where’s the telegraph?” Joe asked, wondering.

  The lawman swiveled his head and shot Noose a look of sheer dislike.

  “You don’t trust me, do you, Sheriff?”

  Roberts stopped his horse on the outskirts of the town and swung around to face Joe dead on and looked him square in the eye. “You’re a man of violence, Mister Noose, I can see that. Whichever side of the law you’re on, I ain’t exactly sure, but I know men like you, and where you go death comes with you. It don’t matter whether your intentions are good or bad, people die around you. There’s a place for men like you, but it ain’t here, not in my town.”

  “I don’t have any plans to stay. Passing through. I’m just helping Mrs. Holdridge get her cattl
e to Cheyenne.”

  Sheriff Roberts looked in Joe’s eyes for a long time with a gaze like flint. He didn’t know what to make of Noose, and that bothered the lawman and made him uncomfortable in Joe’s presence. The bounty hunter realized there wasn’t much he could do about it, just get this business over and done with as quick as possible.

  The town of Rawlins was a place that Joe Noose had never been before, but he had no curiosity about it because he would never be coming back again if he could help it.

  Five minutes later they reached the one-story square brick building with the bars on the window that Joe took to be the sheriff’s office and jail.

  The telegraph must be in the lawman’s office.

  Riding his horse across the street to the hitching post instead of using the one in front of his office, Sheriff Roberts dismounted and tethered his palomino. His moves were spare and economical with no wasted motion, as if he was getting ready to move fast. Keeping a close eye on the lawman, watching where the sheriff’s hands were in relation to his guns, Noose patted Copper and slid out of the saddle onto his boots in a jingle of spurs. He didn’t bother to tether his horse because he didn’t want to occupy his hands, and Copper knew to stay put.

  “Telegraph’s inside my office,” the lean hawk-featured lawman said, heading across the street, keeping pace side by side with the bounty hunter each step of the way, so neither man was behind the other.

  The open door to the sheriff’s office was twenty paces ahead, the inside dark, just the steel bars of a cell visible. The spurs of the two men tambourined on the dirt with each footfall. The open doorway drew closer, and Joe tried to see if he saw a telegraph inside but couldn’t see from this distance. He didn’t see any telegraph wires on this side of the building.

  What if there is no telegraph inside the sheriff’s office?

  Noose realized that Sheriff Roberts might have other plans. Why this local lawman might have brought him out here wasn’t hard to guess. There may not be a telegraph inside the sheriff’s office, but there was a jail cell. Roberts’s intentions might be to lock him up. Back at the herd, the lawman’s tactics may have been to separate the most dangerous gunfighter from the rest of the men in the outfit under the pretense of going to town to send a wire. Just like separating an angry bull from the herd. Obviously the sheriff could see Joe was a killer and the one he had to worry about.