The Crimson Trail

by Eric Red

  “Don’t look.” Noose walked over and gently took Laura by the arm, leading her passive figure back to her covered wagon and helping her up onto the platform.

  He was about to head off when she called to him.

  * * *

  Joe climbed up on the sideboard of Laura’s covered wagon. When she pushed aside the canvas flap and entered, he followed her inside because that seemed what she wanted. Noose had to duck to stand upright inside because the quarters were small. She didn’t speak at first, just adjusted the level of flame in her lantern. It cast a burnished glow on her belongings in the wagon; he was struck by their femininity, a soft safe haven for the woman to come to when she took off her cattlewoman spurs, out of sight of the tough men she employed. Knitted quilts, pillows, and comforters on the duck-feather mattress. Books on a small shelf. An open steamer trunk containing her neatly folded wedding dress she traveled with in memory of her husband, her nightgowns, and a larger trunk filled with chaps and jeans and work shirts. Her hat and gloves and gun belt hung on a peg. A basin large enough to take a whore’s bath in, with soap and a hot water bottle sat on the shelf, beside a pile of neatly stacked towels. Two vases of wildflowers she had found time to pick were placed on the floor. Her traveling quarters smelled of wood and leather and soap and lady scents.

  On the ledge by her bed was a framed sepia daguerreotype photograph of Laura Holdridge with a big, rugged, handsome, formidable man maybe ten years her senior. Joe Noose recognized him as her late husband, Sam Holdridge, whose painting he had seen at her ranch house when he and Marshal Bess Sugarland had stayed the night last month. His young wife was clearly in love with him in the daguerreotype from her devoted expression as they posed for the photographer. In the photo Laura was younger and looked more innocent, but with the same bold, brash, spirited look in her gaze she still had now as a widow and trail boss. The cattlewoman saw the bounty hunter looking at the photo.

  “My husband, Sam.”

  “You made a handsome couple.”

  “Please sit. Wherever.”

  Joe sat on the floor and crossed his big legs Indian style. Laura sat on the bed, a vibration going through her limbs like a tremor, and he recognized she was shaking from nerves. Her mouth trembled and he didn’t know what to say, or why she’d asked him into her covered wagon, but he sensed she wanted to talk, so he sat and he watched her patiently, ready to listen when she was ready to speak, knowing she would get to it in her own good time.

  “I wish Sam was here.”

  “I’m sure you do, ma’am.”

  “Sam would have known how to handle this. He knew how to handle everything that’s going on. I always counted on him being there, you see, taking care of things.” Her hands were clasped in her lap, and the tears began to roll down her cheeks as she wept. Suddenly she looked so small and lost he almost didn’t recognize her. Joe had never seen Laura look vulnerable before, and it came as a shock to him. Only when seconds later she completely broke down in convulsive sobs of despair, did the bounty hunter realize how stoic the cattlewoman had been and the burden on her shoulders keeping everything inside, being strong for her men. “I can’t do it by myself.”

  “You don’t have to. You have your men. And you have me.”

  Joe got up from the floorboards and sat patiently on the bed by Laura’s side. He put his arm gently around her shoulders, like a friend, wondering if that was enough.

  “Hold me.” She whispered it like a child.

  Joe sat inside the covered wagon and put his big arms around Laura, whose whole body shook. He had never seen her look fragile before and it surprised him, because the cattlewoman was so formidable a personality. There was only so much a soul could take, he reckoned. There wasn’t much he could say or do right now except hold her, what she needed right now, so that’s what he did, and the minutes turned to hours in the cozy confines of the covered wagon as her sobs softly continued throughout the long night, and once in a while a lonely coyote howled far off in the hills.

  CHAPTER 20

  The outfit had made camp in a basin in the hills.

  Laura Holdridge woke before everyone else and decided to take a walk to the stream over the hill to refill her canteen. Joe Noose had spent part of the night in her wagon, she curled in his arms, until before daybreak when he left so he could be back in his sleeping roll when the other men awoke so they didn’t get any ideas.

  Laura felt wonderful and energized this lovely morning, her senses tingling, her cares gone from her mind at least for now. She strolled past the slumbering rows of steers, some on the ground, some on their feet, stretching off into the purple predawn; the sight of the herd, her herd, filled her with the true pride of a cattleman.

  She felt very good indeed this morning, basking in a fine sense of well-being. The sun was just rising on the Wyoming horizon and once she walked over the hill, the camp and the cattle were out of view, and she slowed her pace to enjoy the walk and solitude. It was only a short distance from the herd to the river and a few of her stray cows stood drinking at the water’s edge. She joined them on the bank of the tributary looking out at the rapids dappled with sunrise.

  Laura crouched and dipped her canteen in the rushing river.

  As the water flowed into the pouch, she saw her tousled reflection in a rippling pool, golden with dawn. The reflection of another who appeared in the water was just a blur, but she knew who stood behind her from the smell of his cologne.

  Without rising, the cattlewoman swung a hard inquisitive look up at Cole Starborough, who offered a gloved hand to help her up.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Holdridge.”

  * * *

  A figure on horseback rode slowly over the top of the hill. Her golden hair was backlit by the rising sun.

  “There she is.” Noose rose and turned his head, squinting to see Laura make her approach on a horse that wasn’t hers, riding it slow, trotting like on eggshells. “Something’s wrong,” Joe muttered.

  Laura Holdridge gradually came into view as the lone figure on the horse approaching with an agonizing slowness. Her head hung, hair hanging over her face, shoulders slumped in the saddle.

  The men of the outfit gathered behind Noose, who put his hand up for the others not to get any closer, his eyes gravely locked on the cattlewoman. “What’s the hell’s that?” Joe growled.

  It was hard to spot, but some kind of string or yarn trailed from Laura’s saddle back over the hill.

  “Mrs. Holdridge, are you OK?” Brubaker shouted.

  Laura lifted her head, raising her face, tears of shame, fury, and fear in her eyes as she shot out a shaking arm and held her hand up in warning. “Stop.”

  Noose put up his hand and the rovers halted.

  “Stay back,” the cattlewoman said, as with shaking hands she pushed her coat flaps very, very carefully aside and the men jumped back when they all saw it.

  Fifteen sticks of dynamite were strapped on her midriff in a makeshift vest of field bandages wrapped tightly in a crisscross pattern that firmly bound the rods of high explosive to her torso. From the sticks the fuses were twisted together around a spool of detonation wire that trailed out of her saddle down to the ground; the string that Joe had spotted unspooling back over the hill.

  With the last step of the horse’s hooves, the detonation cord had completely unspooled and grew taut, and Laura halted her horse. She could go no farther.

  “What the hell do we do?” Leadbetter asked.

  “Don’t move,” Noose replied.

  A piercing metal whistle drew their attention to the top of the hill.

  Cole Starborough was framed in silhouette against the sunrise. Slamming the wooden box in his hands to the ground, he jerked up the plunger, locking his elbows, gripping the handle in both gloved hands, poised to push down and inject the plunger in the detonator. “You know what this is! I push down and your lady boss and each one of you gets blown sky-high! Don’t even think about trying to shoot me, because I get shot, I fall
right on top of the plunger. You men understand me?”

  The fuming outfit nodded.

  A hundred yards away up the hill, Starborough stood in a crooked position bent over the plunger of the detonator, his face to the outfit below, keeping his seething eyes fixed on them. “Very slowly! Drop your gun belts! Watch those hands!”

  “What do you want?” Noose yelled up at Cole.

  “We’re taking the herd!” the gentleman henchman yelled.

  “Nooooo!” screamed Laura, shaking her head in a fit of tearful fury.

  Joe caught her eye fiercely, made a hand gesture for her to stay calm.

  “This is how it’s going to work!” Starborough shouted. “You’re going to just walk away! Leave the herd! Get on your horses, leave your gear, ride away! Go home! End of the trail, boys!”

  “Go to hell!” Laura screamed over her shoulder, back up the hill at Cole.

  With a savage snarl, Starborough pressed down, injecting the plunger a couple notches into the detonator, not far enough to blow the explosives, but down the hill the outfit all heard the metallic clicks and jumped. “You will get to hell first, Mrs. Holdridge, followed in quick succession by each and every one of your men, unless you cooperate. Now will you cooperate?”

  “Yes,” Laura said.

  “Excuse me, I didn’t hear you!”

  “Yes! Yes, you son of a bitch!” she shouted.

  “Good! Drop those guns, boys, c’mon, belts off, kick ’em away! That’s it! Now raise your hands! Step back from those guns! My men are coming down to collect your firearms!”

  Cole snapped his fingers and five of his operatives in dusters and bowler hats came over the hill and walked down to Joe and the outfit, who had backed away ten paces from their weapons. The five men had their guns holstered, but before the wranglers could get any ideas about jumping the thugs while they picked up the confiscated gun belts and pistols on the ground, Cole snapped his fingers again and another five operatives rose atop the hill with rifles shouldered and trained down the hill, covering their comrades. When the guns had all been collected, the five of Cole’s men quickly and efficiently executed his orders.

  First, Calhoun’s posse ran off the pack horses by un-tethering the animals and firing their guns in the air by their heads, frightening every one of the horses into bolting off into the plains, taking the supplies strapped to their harnesses with them. All the hapless disarmed outfit could do was watch the horses disappear in clouds of dust. The only horses the wranglers had left were the ones each wrangler rode.

  Noose hoped none of Starborough’s men made a move on Copper because if they tried, Joe knew he’d blow Cole to smithereens with his own dynamite, even if Laura exploded in the process. Luckily the posse left his bronze stallion unmolested but they weren’t finished.

  Joe smelled the stench of coal oil and his guts clenched; the posse men uncapped fuel cannisters and went around to the outfit’s wagons, splashing the flammable liquid accelerant over the wood and canvas of the rigs. Matches were struck.

  The posse burned all the wagons.

  Strapped with dynamite, Laura choked, witnessing roaring flames incinerate her wagon and the wedding dress she knew it contained—the waves of heat from the blaze washed over her as it burned the precious gown Laura Holdridge wore exchanging vows with Sam Holdridge; all those irreplaceable memories of her husband reduced to ash. Overwhelmed by a sense of indescribable loss, the bereft cattlewoman shut her eyes, unable to bear the sight of her wagon disappearing in a fireball rolling skyward as the hot tear rolled down her cheek.

  Unarmed, Noose and the wranglers kept their eyes on Starborough. He wasn’t going to kill them, Joe reckoned; he had what he wanted.

  “Ride away!” Cole ordered.

  “That’s my herd!” Laura yelled at the top of her lungs, as if she wasn’t strapped with dynamite.

  “The herd is ours!” Cole shouted. “Tell your boys to ride away! My men are running the steers from here!”

  “Let Laura Holdridge go!” Noose roared. “This is her outfit and she comes with us!”

  Brubaker cupped his hands over his mouth and hollered, “We ain’t going nowhere without our boss!” The rovers all joined in rowdy vituperative vociferations of solidarity directed up the hill at the posse.

  Cole patiently let the men quiet before he loudly stated, “Mrs. Holdridge stays with us as the guest of the Calhoun Cattle Company until the day after the cattlemen’s auction in Cheyenne, at which point she shall be released unharmed!”

  Joe was aghast. “You’re taking her hostage!”

  “My guest, sir! I’m her host! She will be rejoining you all shortly!”

  “That’s kidnapping!”

  “It’s business! This is a warning! Don’t do anything stupid! If you try to come after your boss or take back the herd, I promise you will never see Mrs. Holdridge again!”

  Laura caught Joe’s eye. “It’s OK, Joe,” she told him stoically. “Get the men out of here before Starborough changes his mind. Hear me, Curly? Get everyone saddled up and hit the trail. We lost this round. But this ain’t over.” She, Noose, and Brubaker traded fearsome glances between them . . . It’s war. She gave them a nod. “Ride or die.” The cattlewoman flashed the bounty hunter and head ramrod a brave, bold grin. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  The wranglers slunk to their horses and took to the saddles like beat dogs. Joe Noose was feeling like forty miles of bad road himself as he mounted Copper, when his golden stallion looked back with the saddest look he had ever seen in his eye.

  The outfit’s horses were already on the move, retreating south, out of the blast radius of the explosives. Yanking his reins, the bounty hunter swung his horse around so he faced the cattlewoman. She sat up straight and strong, chest and jaw out as if she was proud of the fifteen sticks of dynamite strapped to her person, wearing it like battle armor. Just like her.

  He locked eyes with the bravest woman he’d ever seen.

  “I’ll see you soon,” Laura said in a tone as loaded as a gun. The side of her mouth was turned up in the subtlest of smiles.

  Touching the brim of his hat, Noose nodded with a savage smile that wasn’t subtle at all. He didn’t reply, nothing needed to be said.

  They understood each other perfectly.

  With a fierce jerk on his reins, Joe Noose broke away on Copper, galloping down the breadth of the herd of longhorns, charging aggressively through Starborough’s mounted operatives descending on the string of cattle to take possession of the livestock; the riders and horses got out of his way, fast.

  Swinging his head over his shoulder, Joe Noose saw the lone figure of Laura Holdridge strapped with dynamite sitting on her horse, shrinking smaller and smaller behind him.

  I’ll see you soon.

  Damn soon.

  CHAPTER 21

  At the Calhoun Bar T Ranch in Abilene, Texas, a mixed crew of Latino rovers were bringing in the herd from Juarez.

  A Mexican cowboy ramrod delivered the herd to the Calhoun stockyards. High spirits abounded. Tonight there would be muchas cervezas.

  In the office above the big slaughterhouse on the spread, cattle baron Crispin Calhoun, master of all he surveyed, stood by the window looking down at the stockyard at the herd of longhorns pouring into the corral. The only part of Calhoun that moved were his lips as he counted each and every head.

  The foreman of the rovers collected his money and jumped on his horse, but before he could leave, two of Calhoun’s ramrods rode up and intercepted him.

  “Mr. Calhoun wants to see you.”

  “What about?”

  “Ask him.”

  The Mexican foreman shrugged, nervous and excited to be meeting for the first time the legendary cattleman who ruled the West. Perhaps it would be to thank him for bringing in the herd and offer him a promotion. He rode with the two very big cowboys toward the weathered slaughterhouse. The tallest structure on the ranch, it had been erected centrally to the layout, l
ooming over the warrens of stockades and corrals.

  To be polite, the Mexican rover doffed his dirty hat when he was led up the stairs to the top floor of the abattoir that served as the cattle baron’s office. There was the famous Calhoun, a smaller man than the foreman expected for such a storied individual, standing with his back to him. For a moment, the Mexican just stood there, hat held in his hands, starting to sweat. It was hot in here. Should he cough or clear his throat to announce himself? Shifting his gaze over his shoulder to the hulking cowboy ramrods who stood like sentinels between the foreman and the staircase, he saw their eyes were locked on their boss.

  Crispin Calhoun turned from his desk beside the window looking over his cattle empire. “Two thousand head of cattle left Juarez last Thursday when you moved out the herd. Today when you brought in the herd, the head count was one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine head.”

  “Pretty close.”

  “I’m short one cow.”

  “Must have lost it.”

  “How exactly do you lose a cow?”

  “Cows get lost on a drive.”

  “Not my cows.”

  “Then I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know how you lost one of my cattle either, but I do know that the average weight of a steer is a thousand pounds. Seventy-five percent of that is meat. Flesh if you will. Does the term, ‘a pound of flesh’ mean anything to you?”

  “Should it?”

  “You owe me fourteen hundred pounds of flesh.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Calhoun. It won’t happen again. What does beef cost a pound? Just take it out of my pay.”

  “Your debt is one thousand four hundred pounds of flesh. I’m calling it in.”

  Two of Calhoun’s hulking cowboys seized the wrangler foreman and carried the man into the bowels of the abattoir where butchered cattle hung, a space full of sharp implements and buzzing flies, blood everywhere floor to ceiling, a smell of death; there the henchmen strung up the terrified rover on heavy iron chains. He begged for his life.