High Valley Manhunt: Laramie Davies #1 (5 page)

The
posse was strung out along the rough trail when the light breeze
brought the sound of the distant gun fire. Jeb Coltrain brought them
all to a halt by a raised hand. His brother Zeb, rode up beside him
and asked frustratedly, “Why are we stopping?”

Jeb
looked at him and for a moment wondered if his brother was losing it.
He shook his head and said evenly, “I can hear gunfire up
ahead.”

“Yes,
so,” the judge dismissed it, “I can hear it too. Hence my
question, why are we stopping?”

“Well
shoot Judge, I ain't about to ride headlong into a gunfight I know
nothin' about,” the Sheriff whipped around in the saddle, “Jim,
go and take a look.”

“Will
do,” Jim Clancy said as he moved his mount forward past the
Coltrain brothers.

“And
stay out of sight,” the Sheriff added unnecessarily.

“We're
wasting time sitting here Jeb,” said the Judge.

“If
it keeps us alive, then it isn't a waste of time, Judge.”

“And
meanwhile that murdering son of a bitch is getting further away,”
spat Zeb in frustration.

The
Sheriff let it go. He could understand his brother's angst, but he
needed to be a little more patient. They would catch Davis
eventually, and then the Judge could unleash his vengeance upon the
gunfighter.

Fifteen
minutes later, Jim Clancy returned at a gallop then dragged back on
the reins and brought his Bay round and skidded to a halt.

“The
way station is under attack from Indians, Jeb,” Clancy said
concernedly.

“How
many Indians are you talkin' about Jim?” asked Sheriff
Coltrain, unperturbed.

“They
look like they've been whittled down some, but my guess would be
fifteen, maybe a few more.”

Jeb
Coltrain thought for a moment, then drew his Colt and checked the
loads, “Alright,” he said loud enough for everyone to
hear, “Let's go kill us some redskins,”

“Now
just hold on a minute Sheriff,” Orson Blake protested.

The
Sheriff gave Blake a withering look, “Do you have somethin' to
say Blake?”

Orson
thought about it briefly, then dropped his gaze and shook his head.

“Didn't
think so,” Jeb focused his gaze on the Judge, “Reckon you
can keep up on that mule of yours?”

The
Judge pulled the Webley revolver from his pocket, “My mule
could outrun that damn nag of yours on his worst day.”

“Alright
then, let's go.”

*

“Hey
Blackie, I'm getting' low on ammunition,” Benny shouted across
to the outlaw as the latest attack died away.

“You
ain't the only one kid,” Harbin agreed, “another rush
like that last one and I'll be all out.”

Things
were bad. Since the initial assault, targets were hard to acquire.
The Blackfeet would move in quickly and loose shots, then fall back.
This caused the defenders to waste valuable ammunition even if they
made the occasional kill shot.

“Keep
an eye out,” Harbin said and ducked off to check the others.

Both
had the same issues; too many Indians and not enough ammunition.
Blackie called the group together, “Listen up, you know how bad
it is so this is what I propose to do. On the next attack, we go out
that door and take the fight to them. Have all your weapons fully
loaded and ready to go.”

“Not
much of a plan,” Cato pointed out.

“Would
you rather stay in here until we run out of ammunition?” Harbin
asked scornfully.

“Didn't
say that Blackie, just said it wasn't much of a plan,” Cato
said defensively, “But I guess it's better than the
alternative.”

“Exactly,”
Harbin agreed, “anybody else have an idea?”

Benny
said, “I always figured I'd go down in front of a gun. Just
didn't think it would be a damn Redskin on the other end of it.”

“Perhaps
you would like me to shoot you?” Lone Wolf asked, a smile on
his face.

“Damn,”
said Cato who shook his head in bewilderment, “now you smile.
You who've never smiled in your life, pick when we are about to die,
to start.”

A
short while later, the Blackfeet came again, but this time the Harbin
gang came out to meet them.

With
Blackie in the lead, the gang emerged from the way station, all guns
fired as fast as they could. The Indians were taken aback at such a
foolhardy move and hesitated, which gave the outlaws a short lived
reprieve.

The
Blackfeet increased their rate of fire but still the gang's luck
held. Bullets kicked dirt up, like mini eruptions at their feet while
others whizzed past, close enough for them to feel the displaced air.
An arrow opened a thin cut on Lone Wolf's thigh while another gouged
flesh from Cato's rib cage.

Things
changed rapidly when Blackie Harbin went down.

*

The
Posse came off the trail at full gallop, men yelled at the top of
their voices while they fired their guns at the Indian Braves.
Warriors scattered as the posse men cut a path between them and the
outlaws. The increased amount of fire, set the Blackfeet back on
their heels. In the first pass, the posse put down four Indians and
as they turned to come back, the attack broke and the warriors
scattered.

The
posse men, however, didn't escape unscathed. When they turned to ride
back through the yard, a lucky shot took Grover Yates in the chest
and caused his bright red blood to spray across Orson Blake, then he
slowly slid from the saddle, dead before he hit the earth.

Jim
Clancy was wounded as well. An arrow burrowed into the fleshy part of
his thigh, but unable to do anything about it, the unwanted intrusion
remained in place for the time being.

Sheriff
Jeb Coltrain sighted down the barrel of his Colt and fired a shot at
the back of a retreating warrior. The gun bucked in his hand and he
smiled as the bullet smashed into the Brave's head, spraying crimson.
The Indian flopped to the ground, a lifeless heap amidst the carnage
of battle. A shrill, almost human scream filled the air. Coltrain
turned to look and saw the Judge's mule go down, which threw the
heavy man to the hard packed yard. He tried to rise but the dead
animal had him pinned by the leg.

The
sheriff came out of his saddle and rushed to his brother's side, “Are
you okay Zeb?”

“Help
me out,” the Judge bleated, “the damn mule has my leg
pinned.”

Jeb
Coltrain holstered his gun, bent down and took his brother under the
arms and heaved with all his strength. The Judge slid out and Jeb let
him flop on the ground.

The
sheriff drew his gun again and looked around the swing station yard.
The gunfire had ceased and the Indians were gone. Men started to get
together to make sure they were all fine.

A dry
triple click of a gun hammer caused the Sheriff to turn slowly, and
he came face to face with Blackie Harbin.

“Nice
of you to turn up law dog,” Blackie said through gritted teeth,
“Now how about you toss that gun of yours.”

Jeb
noticed that Harbin had taken a shot to the left shoulder. Blood ran
down his arm and dripped from the tips of his fingers. His face was a
mask of pain and he was unsteady on his feet, but the six-gun he held
in his right fist was rock steady.

The
sheriff lowered his gun, “Now hold on there stranger. You'd
best think about it before you go and pull that trigger.”

“I
said, lose the gun,” Harbin repeated the order.

Coltrain
looked around the yard and noticed that posse men and outlaws alike,
still had their weapons drawn but had them pointed at each other.

“What's
your name?” he asked Harbin.

Harbin
looked at him as if he were stupid, “Don't you know? Hell
Sheriff, I'm the notorious Blackie Harbin.”

The
sheriff nodded, “I heard of you. Mean son of a bitch, and low
down murderer.”

Harbin
smiled through the pain, “You heard right.”

“I
tell you what Harbin. How about we forget our paths ever crossed?
Would that suit you?”

Harbin
looked at the law man suspiciously, “Now why would you do
that?”

“Because
it ain't you we're chasin',” Jeb explained, “We are after
the scum that killed my brother's boy, who also happened to be my
deputy. Feller by the name of Laramie Davis.”

Harbin
laughed bitterly.

“What's
funny?” the Sheriff asked, curious.

“Hell,
Laramie was here last night Sheriff,” Harbin explained, his
voice full of mirth, “ Matter of fact he left sometime during
the night and took somethin' of mine with him.”

“Where
did he go?” the Judge burst out eagerly, “Answer me man,
I must know so the killer can hang.”

“Ease
up Judge,” Jeb cautioned his brother.

“Well,
well, a Judge too. This just gets better,” Harbin went quiet,
trying to think.

“Are
we goin' to shoot 'em Blackie?” Benny asked his boss from
halfway across the yard.

“Shut
up a moment kid, I'm busy.”

Harbin
looked thoughtfully at the Sheriff, “I tell you what law man,
since you and I are goin' to be after the same man, how about we join
up together and do it that way.”

There
were two reasons for Harbin's suggestion. The first was the Indians.
He knew, without a doubt, that they would be back. The second was the
ammunition situation, as he had no bullets left in his gun. He
couldn't shoot the Sheriff even if he'd wanted to.

“No!”
barked the Judge.

Jeb
ignored his brother, “Alright we'll do it that way, but I
don't want no grief. Any trouble from your boys and they'll have me
to deal with. That goes for you too.”

Harbin's
eyes glittered and he broke into a churlish grin as he lowered his
gun, “Looks like we got ourselves a deal.”

“Fine
then,” affirmed Jeb Coltrain, “we'd best see to the dead
and wounded.”

*

The
trio topped Frenchie's Pass early in the afternoon and the vista
before them, was one of the most beautiful sights that Sally had ever
seen. The lush, green meadows, the giant trees from an ageless time,
and the sun's reflection on the crystal clear water of the lake that
sparkled like diamonds. The effect was breathtakingly spectacular.

“That
is amazing,” she marvelled softly, as she tried to find her
voice, “I never knew a place like this existed. It's
unbelievable.”

“As
old Lonesome says, it's about as close to heaven as a man can get,
without dyin'.”

“I
think I tend to agree with him, whoever he is,” Sally said, her
mouth agape in awe, “What's it called? This valley, what's its
name?”

Laramie
shook his head, “Beaver Valley.”

“Who's
Old Lonesome?” Slate asked.

“He's
an old trapper, goes by the name of Lonesome Lane,” explained
Laramie, “He's been livin' in this valley since forever. You'll
meet him later on, as we should reach his cabin before dark.”

The
trail down into the valley was narrow. It twisted through tall
ponderosa, and turned past large, jagged rock formations. At one
point, the path tapered down to a constricted ledge that ran along a
sheer cliff face with a drop of over five hundred feet, before it
opened up again and curved away through another stand of trees.
Occasionally, a small rivulet of water cut the rider's path and
continued its course to the drop off, where it formed one of many
scattered, miniature waterfalls.

On
their arrival at the base of the valley, the trail came out into a
broad meadow and the trio found themselves riding through grass,
thick and tall enough to touch their horse's flanks.

For
the rest of the afternoon they followed the trail as it meandered
across small, swift flowing streams that bubbled and gurgled over
their rocky bottoms, dappled sunlight creating a hypnotic effect. On
the north shore of the small lake, the riders startled some elk that
grazed upon an abundance of sweet grass. The horses picked their way
along the bank of a slow stream and headed toward a large dam built
and maintained by a small beaver population which inhabited the deep
pond formed by the wall.

Beyond
the beaver pond, and its furry residents, lay their destination. A
rough hewn log cabin with wooden shutters and smoke that curled
lazily from a stone chimney. The home of Lonesome Lane.

As
they approached the cabin, a man stepped through the doorway and
levelled an ancient Hawken rifle in Laramie's direction, “Hold
it right there Pilgrim, I'd hate to paint that there fancy horse of
yours a nice shade of red.”

*

While
Laramie stared into the gaping muzzle of Lonesome's Hawken, the
posse, boosted by the remains of Blackie Harbin's gang, approached a
flat strip of land, sparsely covered by trees, just shy of Frenchie's
Pass.

“We'll
camp here for the night,” ordered Jeb Coltrain. He pointed at a
fast flowing stream which split the bench, “plenty of water and
flat ground.”

It
suited Harbin. His shoulder wound throbbed something fierce, and he
wanted a chance to clean it again.

“What
about the Indians?” the Judge asked, concerned, “Won't
they come back?”

“That
was my thinkin' too,” whined Orson Blake, “We should have
turned back after they high tailed it.”

Blake
had felt that way since they'd buried Grover Yates in his unmarked
grave. Not the only one to voice his opinion, both Blake and Clay
Adams, the young cow hand, had had their say. The pair and their
misgivings, were overridden by the Coltrains.

“Shut
up Blake, your whinin' is startin' to annoy me,” Jeb Coltrain
said forcefully before he answered his brother's question, “It's
possible, but I think with the lickin' they received today, maybe
they'll go and tend their wounds for a while.”

The
Judge seemed mollified by that.

With
the horses unsaddled and picketed, the Sheriff walked across to
Blackie Harbin, “One of yours and one of mine on first watch.
Do you have a problem with that?”