High Valley Manhunt: Laramie Davies #1

LARAMIE DAVIS

Book 1

by B. S. Dunn

This book has 149 paperback pages.

All Laramie Davis wanted was a hot meal. What he got was a plate full of trouble. It started with the killing of a Deputy Sheriff in Rock Springs and went down hill from there. Laramie tangled with outlaws, blood hungry Indians and a murderous posse led by a family of killers. Before it was over, many men would die.

A
CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books and
BEKKERpublishing are imprints of Alfred Bekker

©
by Author /
Cover by Edition Bärenklau / Steve
Mayer camrocker/Shotshop, 2016

©
this issue 2016 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westfalen
in arrangement with Edition Bärenklau, edited by Jörg
Martin Munsonius.

All
rights reserved.

www.AlfredBekker.de

[email protected]

This
one is for Jacob, who always asks, “And then what happened?”

“What
do you think Bo?” Laramie Davis asked his big appaloosa Stud,
“Does it look like a good place to get a nice, hot meal?”

The
board said Rock Springs. Population 942 but by the look of the sign
and its crossed out numbers, it was obvious that the population was
on the decline. Nestled at the foot of a snowcapped mountain range
that towered overhead, the town was surrounded by low ridges, topped
with ponderosa pine and douglas Fir, that ran the length of the
spacious valley. Laramie cast his gaze over the vast tracts of
grazing land dissected by cottonwood lined creeks, with clear waters,
fed by the slow ice melt from above.

Bo
stood silently, and flicked his dark tail at an annoying fly. The big
horse's front half was a chocolate colour that became dappled on his
hind quarters.

“Yeah,”
said Laramie in answer for his horse, “let's go find out.”

As the
afternoon sun sank lower in the cloudless sky, Laramie urged Bo
forward with pressure from his left knee. In response, the animal
started forward, on the deeply rutted trail as it wound down the
slope, and ran them straight into trouble.

*

Inquisitive
townsfolk stopped to stare at the stranger who rode his fine
chocolate coloured appaloosa along main street. The man, they guessed
was maybe forty five, of solid build and a touch over six feet tall.
He had brown hair to match his eyes and his face was tanned and
weathered, witness to the long trails he'd ridden over the years. He
wore dark jeans, a red shirt and a dark vest under a buckskin coat.
His saddle boot held a Winchester rifle, 1876 model, but what drew
their attention, were the twin Remington six-shooters holstered on
his slim waist. The weapons indicated to all around him, that the
stranger was a gunfighter.

As he
proceeded down the street, he rocked easily with the smooth gait of
the appaloosa, aware of the attention he attracted. Experience had
taught him that strangers in some towns had problems, especially in
his profession. Gunmen attracted trouble like a moth to a flame.

The
town, like many others Laramie passed through, had false shop fronts
which lined the dusty street. There was a bank, post office, stage
and freight company, dry goods store and a few cafes. A hotel sat
between the cattleman's association building and the Red Eye Saloon.
With a slight nudge, Bo changed direction and walked up to the timber
hitch rail outside the bustling saloon.

Laramie
swung down out of the saddle and looped the reins over the rail. He
stretched then slapped the built up trail dust from his clothes. From
habit, he adjusted his gun belt and flipped the rawhide loops off the
hammer of the Remingtons. No such thing as too careful he thought,
with death only a bullet away. His right hand on the polished walnut
butt of one Remington, Laramie climbed the scarred wooden steps and
eased his way into the saloon.

The
bar room covered a large, well lit area that included a section set
up with a roulette wheel and felt-covered poker tables.

The
afternoon crowd was of a reasonable size and the noise was at a
medium level. Voices grew louder as liquor consumption increased.
Raucous laughter cut across the room, followed by the shrill screech
of a whore's indignity. Laramie looked left and right as he moved
further in. The sound of breaking glass was quickly followed by a
savage curse. Wooden chair legs scraped the timber floor as two men
lurched to their feet, only to be restrained by friends. Faced with a
possible threat, Laramie had half drawn the Remington, but now eased
it back into its well oiled holster.

He
sidled up to a long, Mahogany bar with a brass foot rail and polished
counter top. The red headed barkeep was busy with a ranch hand when
he saw Laramie and gave him a nod, “I'll be with you in a
minute,” he called above the din.

Laramie
lifted a hand in acknowledgement. He watched the barman finish with
his customer then make his way along the bar towards him, “What
can I get you stranger?” he asked, jovially.

“Beer,”
said Laramie.

The
barkeep smiled warmly, “Sure, beer comin' up,” and he
walked off, found a mug, filled it and brought the large, foam
covered beer back to place it in front of the gunfighter. Laramie
tossed a dollar onto the counter top but the barkeep pushed it back,
“First one is on the house.”

Laramie
nodded, “Obliged.”

Laramie
looked around the room then asked, “Do you serve meals in
here?”

“Sure
do,” the barkeep answered, “What would you like?”

“What
have you got?”

“How
about I get the cook to run you out a rump steak with all the
trimmin's. You can follow that up with a piece of pie.”

Laramie's
stomach growled at the prospect, “Sounds great. I have a horse
outside at the rail that needs takin' care of before I eat.”

The
barman nodded that he understood, “Sure, sure. I'll have your
meal waitin' when you return. The livery is just down the street
aways. Tell the feller that runs it that Charlie sent you and he'll
set you right. Say I didn't get your name.”

“It's
Laramie Davis,” Laramie said softly.

A
small spark of recognition flickered in the barkeeps eyes, “Glad
to know you Mister Davis, like I said, your meal will be waitin' on
your return.

He
finished his beer, wiped foam from his top lip and walked outside to
where the big appaloosa awaited his owner. Laramie unwound the reins,
then led Bo along the street to the livery stable. When he mentioned
Charlie, the hostler seemed eager to help and was quite friendly. The
straw filled stall for the night set him back two dollars, which
included feed. Laramie passed him three and asked the man to have Bo
ready for the trail early in the morning.

*

When
he returned to the Red Eye Saloon, Charlie was true to his word and
Laramie’s meal waited for him. The plate was piled high with
steak, potatoes, bacon, beans and topped with thick gravy.

“Find
yourself a table Mister Davis and I'll bring you out another beer, or
perhaps you'd prefer a pot of coffee?” Charlie inquired.

“Beer
will be fine , thanks Charlie. The meal looks mighty fine too.”

Charlie
leaned in close and spoke softly, “If you say anything' I'll
deny it but, my wife is the best damn cook in Montana.”

“I'll
keep it under my hat,” Laramie smiled.

“You
do that. Now go and find that table and I'll be right out.”

Laramie
found a corner table from which he could watch the comings and goings
through the batwings. Old habits he thought.

Charlie
was right about his wife being a great cook. The food was the best
he'd eaten in a long while and he considered the possibility of an
extra night. The steak was tender and the juices ran when he cut it.
The potatoes tasted great, the bacon was crisp and the gravy was
something else. When the apple pie came, and there were no words to
describe how good it was. When Laramie paid for his meal, he slipped
Charlie an extra two dollars.

He
ordered a pot of coffee and sat back at his table. While he waited, a
young man entered the saloon and walked up to the bar. He was of
average height and build, had sandy coloured hair and wore black
jeans and a blue shirt. His face appeared almost childlike with its
fair skin. He seemed far too young to wear a tied down Colt at his
right thigh. Laramie turned his attention to the badge pinned to the
kid's breast pocket. Something told him that the kid was trouble and
he was right.

The
kid called Charlie over and the two talked briefly before the young
man turned to look in Laramie's direction. He adjusted his gun rig
and weaved his way through the crowd to Laramie's table. Without an
invitation, he sat down.

“Charlie
tells me your name is Davis. My name is Jeremiah Coltrain. Deputy
Jeremiah Coltrain,” he said and tapped the shiny, nickel plated
badge.

Laramie
studied him silently for a moment, then asked warily, “What can
I do for you deputy?”

“Do
you own that big appaloosa stud down at the livery?” Coltrain
asked.

Laramie
nodded, “I do.”

A
broad smile split Coltrain's face, “Great. How much do you want
for him?”

Laramie
was confused. He glanced towards the bar and saw Charlie with a
concerned expression on his face, “Are you telling me you want
to buy my horse?”

The
young man shook his head, “No, I'm telling you I'm goin' to buy
your horse.”

“Bo's
not for sale Mister Coltrain.”

Coltrain
laughed out loud, “Everything is for sale at the right price
Davis.”

“Not
Bo. You don't have enough money, and even if you did I still wouldn't
sell him.”

The
glint of happiness left the young man's eyes and was replaced with a
darkness that immediately put Laramie on edge. With a forced smile
Coltrain said, “I'm tryin' to be right polite about the sale I
want to make Davis, but you ain't makin' it very easy. Now how things
actually work around here is that I say I want to buy your horse and
you say yes. Do you understand?”

Laramie
stole another glance at Charlie who now sweated bullets. It was
obvious that Coltrain had some sort of pull in town and Laramie
guessed that he used the deputy's badge to wield it. As Laramie had
been around for a long time, he would not be pushed by a punk kid.
His voice held menace as he quietly said, “Kid I already told
you, Bo is not for sale. I strongly suggest that you get up and walk
out of this saloon and let me finish my coffee.”

Coltrain's
voice rose sharply as he leapt to his feet and knocked his chair
backwards, “Do you know who I am? What the name Coltrain means
in this town?”

Laramie
was aware of the sudden, heavy silence that descended in the Red Eye.
Men closest to his table rose and moved away, “No, kid I don't
know you from Adam, but I do know this. If you are thinkin' on
pullin' that Colt your hand is restin' on I'd reconsider, because in
the time it took for you to stand up I pulled and cocked one of my
Remingtons. Right at this moment it's under this table pointed your
way.”

Jeremiah
Coltrain snorted derisively, “You're bluffin' Davis.”

Laramie's
voice remained calm, “Are you willin' to die to find out?”

Coltrain
stood still, uncertainty clouded his eyes. Laramie's words shook him
some and he tried to figure out what to do next. In an attempt to
salvage some dignity he said stubbornly, “I still mean to have
that horse,” and with that , turned and stalked from the
saloon.

Laramie
watched the kid go and once through the bat wing doors, the noise
level rose as everybody breathed a sigh of relief, but the look in
the kid's eyes let him know that this wasn't over. Laramie eased the
hammer down on the Remington and holstered it.

Twenty
minutes later, the frantic hostler burst into the saloon and looked
around until he found Laramie. He rushed up to the table and blurted
out, “Mister Davis you'd best come quick. Jeremiah Coltrain is
at your horse. He means to take him.”

“Damn
fool kid,” Laramie cursed as he lurched to his feet and ran out
of the saloon.

When
Laramie arrived at the livery stable, Coltrain had Bo outside the
large timber framed doors, in an attempt to saddle him. Bo had other
ideas. The appaloosa was a one man horse and there was no way in hell
he would let Jeremiah Coltrain ride him.

“Stand
down Coltrain,” Laramie's voice sounded like a whip crack in
the night, “Let the horse go. I told you I wasn't sellin' him
so if you let him go right now, you just might get away with the
mistake of attempted horse stealing.”

Although
the sun had gone down, the illumination of the lamp light from in the
stables showed the bewilderment on Jeremiah Coltrain's face, “You
still don't get it do you? We run this town. The Coltrain's run Rock
Springs. What we say goes and when I tell you I want this horse I
mean that I will have him. I offered you payment, but since you
refused, I will just take him. Am I getting' through to you yet?”

A
crowd had gathered nearby and watched events unfold. Laramie had lost
all patience with the kid and demanded, “I said let him go!”

Coltrain
smiled and said coldly, “Come and get him.”

Laramie
moved like lightning. His left hand took hold of Bo's reins while his
right hand made a fist and snaked out with unbelievable speed, and
caught Coltrain flush on the jaw. The kid cried out, released the
reins, and fell backward to the hard packed earth. He lay there
stunned, shook his head and tried to clear the cobwebs. When he wiped
at the corner of his mouth, his hand came away red with blood.

“Damn
you, you'll pay for that!” Coltrain snarled.

The
deputy sheriff's hand flashed towards his holstered Colt. It had just
cleared leather when Laramie's twin Remingtons roared. Both shots
punched into the kid's chest and killed him instantly. Laramie stood
for a moment and looked at the young man he had just shot. It was
senseless. A spoilt brat used to getting his own way, and now it had
gotten him killed.

Laramie
became aware of the man who stood beside him, “Damn fool kid,”
he muttered.

“That
may be Mister Davis,” Charlie the barkeep agreed, “but
you need to get gone from here now.”

“Why?
It was self defence. And the kid was tryin' to steal my horse.”

“Maybe
so,” Charlie agreed again, “But that boy's father is the
town Judge, his uncle is the town sheriff and his brother is a
deputy. If you stay here they will certainly hang you before
mornin'.”

A
murmur rippled through the gathered crowd and Charlie called out, “
Chip get the man's saddle and put it on his horse.”

The
hostler ducked inside the stables and returned with Laramie's saddle
and Winchester, then immediately began to saddle the horse. Once
finished, Laramie climbed up and turned to leave when a new voice cut
through the noise of the crowd, “Hold it right there Mister.”

Laramie
turned slightly in the saddle. In front of him stood the sheriff of
Rock Springs, and in his fist was a Colt .45.

“Hey,
Uncle Jeb, it's Jeremiah,” Shell Coltrain gasped as he rushed
forward.

Jebediah
Coltrain gave no indication that he'd heard what Shell had said. “Who
are you Mister?”

Laramie
studied the man who stood in the false light of the stable's
lanterns. Jebediah Coltrain was in his late forties and was a little
under six feet tall. He had a solid build and greying hair, cold eyes
and was dressed in denim pants, blue shirt and a calf skin vest.

“My
name is Laramie Davis,” Laramie answered.

“The
gunfighter?” the sheriff asked.

Laramie
nodded.

“Uncle
Jeb, Jeremiah's dead. The damn son of a bitch killed him. Shot him
twice in the chest.”

“Looks
like we're goin' to have us a hangin' in town,” Jeb Coltrain
said without emotion.

A cold
chill touched Laramie's spine as he explained, “The kid was
tryin' to steal my horse. When I tried to stop him he went for his
gun. It was a clear case of self defence Sheriff.”

“The
stranger speaks the truth, Sheriff,” Charlie the bar keep said
and backed Laramie's story, “young Jeremiah wanted his
appaloosa somethin' fierce and when the stranger said no, he tried to
take it anyway. We were all here. Davis had no choice, Jeremiah would
have shot him down.”

“Shut
your yap bar keep,” snapped Shell Coltrain savagely, “he
murdered my brother and for that he is goin' to pay with his life. An
eye for an eye, right Uncle Jeb?”

The
Sheriff nodded, “I reckon so Shell. You best run along and let
your father know about Jeremiah. I'll take care of this.”

Shell
paused in the yellow light for a moment where Laramie could see him
properly. He looked a lot like his dead brother, sandy hair, average
build, maybe a little taller but he wore tailored clothes and held a
Spencer carbine.

“Are
you sure you don't want me to stick around?”

“Just
go tell your Pa,” Jeb Coltrain snapped.

Laramie
watched the young Deputy leave then turned his attention back to the
older Coltrain, “You're makin' a big mistake Sheriff.”

“The
only mistake was made by you Davis, when you stopped in Rock
Springs,” the Sheriff pointed out, “now, are you goin' to
climb down off that horse. or do I have to shoot you out of the
saddle?”

Unnoticed
by anyone, Charlie had slipped away from the crowd and stood by a
stack of wooden crates. He pushed purposefully with his left hand
which caused the crates to tumble, and as they hit the ground,
several splintered.

The
crash was a welcome distraction for Laramie as it caused the
Sheriff's gaze to seek out the source of the disturbance. Laramie
gave Bo a solid kick and the big horse leapt forward, his deep chest
cannoned into the Sheriff and knocked him from his feet. With a loud
curse, Jeb Coltrain, although stunned, came to his feet and tried to
line up his Colt with the fleeing rider's back as he escaped into the
night. He fired three wild shots but missed with all, as the
gunfighter rode low over the appaloosa's neck. Jeb Coltrain managed
to get another shot off before horse and rider disappeared.

The
irate Sheriff turned his fury towards the worried townsfolk, “When
I find out which one of you helped that son of a bitch escape, I'll
hang you on the scaffold next to him!”

“Make
way, damn it, let me through.”

The
crowd parted as an obese man of around fifty, dressed in black,
forced his way through. His jowls wobbled and his cheeks flared as he
puffed and panted from the exertion, “Where is he? Where is the
killer that murdered my boy?”

“He's
gone judge,” Jeb Coltrain informed his brother.

“What?
Where? How...How can he be gone?” Zebulon Coltrain asked, his
confusion evident, “Did you let him go? Shell said you had
taken him prisoner.”

“No
I didn't damn well let him go,” he hissed, “he escaped,
and when I get to the bottom of it, he ain't goin' to be the only one
swinging from a damn rope.”

“Where's
my boy, Jeb?” the judge asked morosely.

The
Sheriff pointed to where the body lay, “Over there Zeb.”

The
judge staggered on leaden legs towards his son's prone body and sank
to his knees, a solitary figure, alone in his grief. A low keening
escaped his lips, and continued for ten minutes until he rose to his
feet, his face a mask of rage, “I want him Jeb. I want that
murdering bastard dead. Do you hear me? Dead! You form a posse right
now and let's get after him.”

“Sure
thing Zeb, sure thing,” the sheriff said quietly and held his
brother's gaze, “Consider it done.”