High Valley Manhunt: Laramie Davies #1 (2 page)

Two
days later, Blackie Harbin and his gang rode into Four Trails Way
station a little before noon. So named because of the stage trails
that intersected there. The main trail ran from East to West, one
from South-West terminated there, and the fourth trail ran due North.
The way station sat on the West bank of the broad, fast flowing, Pine
Tree River, and next to the rough pine log bridge that had been built
in the station's early days of operation.

The
country on the far side, rose sharply to the jagged mountains that
formed the west wall of Pine Tree River Valley. The lower slopes were
covered with Fir trees and ponderosa Pines, a smattering of other
species mixed throughout, as well as large boulders shaped like giant
marbles. The river, shallow at this point, had rocks which jutted
above the surface amidst a roiling mass of white water.

The
construction of the station was logs from the surrounding forest,
hand tooled and slotted together. Mud was used to create a weather
proof finish. The adjacent corral used the slimmer lodge pole pines,
and a rough plank barn sat at the rear.

Animals
grazed in the lush meadow that was spotted with small yellow wild
flowers. In the station yard, a Concorde stage with a team of six
horses in the traces, stood and waited. Emblazoned on the stage's
side, in yellow writing was, North-West Stage Lines. Four men lay
dead on the ground, flies buzzed around the bullet holes and fed on
the not yet congealed blood.

Beside
the stage stood a young woman, her sky blue dress crumpled from the
journey. Next to her was a travelling salesman, who stood transfixed
with his arms raised, his brow soaked in sweat. Fear coursed through
him as he stared down the barrels of the four guns pointed at him.

He
swallowed hard and stammered, “P...P...Please don't shoot me. I
have a family. I won't say anything, I swear it.”

An
outlaw smiled coldly, his blackened teeth showing, and said, “You're
damn right there,” and took up the slack on the trigger and the
hammer fell. His gun roared, the thunderous sound reverberated from
the surrounding peaks. The salesman was thrown back as the .45
calibre bullet took him in the chest. He landed heavily in the dirt,
twitched once and died.

The
woman screamed, her brown eyes wide and filled with tears.

“Chris,
take her inside. I'll work out what to do with her later.”

“Sure,
Blackie,” Chris answered, with a hint of expectation of what
was to come.

Blackie
Harbin and his gang were the scourge of the North-West. Harbin was
the worst. The outlaw was tall and thin, with shoulder length black
hair, and brown, hate filled eyes, set in a square jawed face. He
favoured a duster coat and denim pants, twin, pearl handled Colts
strapped around his slim waist. He ran his gang with an iron fist and
showed no mercy toward any man who questioned his decisions.

There
were six outlaws in all. Harbin, Chris, Cato, Slate, Benny and Lone
Wolf and each of them was wanted by the law.

Chris,
at twenty-five, was five eight tall, had black hair and a solid
build. His beady grey eyes were set deep in his tanned face.

Cato
was thirty two and of similar build to Chris. He was wiry but had
sandy hair and blue eyes.

Slate
was a recent addition to Harbin's gang. He was twenty five and stood
six feet in his socks. His hair and eyes were brown and his face was
hawkish. Slate had been a petty criminal until he'd met the outlaw
leader.

Benny
was a baby faced killer. He was twenty one, slim built with blond
hair and blue eyes. He dressed in black and wore twin Peacemakers. He
was what the old hands called a wannabe.

That
just left Lone Wolf , who was Crow Indian with all the Indian traits.
He was tough and wiry and stood five ten. He was quiet, spoke only
when spoken to, most of the time, but when riled, turned into an
efficient killer.

As
Chris dragged the young woman into the stage station by her long,
black hair, Cato and Slate approached Blackie with the strong box
they'd found under one of the Concorde's seats, “Here it is
Blackie, they had it stashed away.”

“Take
it inside, but shoot that damn lock off before you do,” the
outlaw leader ordered.

The
two men dropped the box on the hard packed earth with a dull thud.
Cato drew his Colt and there was a triple click as he eared back the
hammer. It was followed by the loud boom of the shot as he blew the
lock off the heavy, iron-strapped strong box, then picked it up and
carried it inside.

“Benny,”
Harbin called out to the youngest one, “you and Lone Wolf keep
watch, I don't want any surprises.”

“Sure
Blackie, whatever you say.”

Harbin
turned on his heel and followed the others inside.

*

Laramie
Davis sat on his haunches under a tall ponderosa Pine, his broad back
leant up against the rough bark of its trunk. Bo was ground hitched
further back in the trees and remained out of sight.

He had
watched the stage station for a good while and observed the
sickening, cold blooded murder of the salesman, the woman dragged by
her hair, and the heavy lock box go off in the same direction.

Laramie
had become aware that he was riding into trouble when the pop-pop of
gunshots reached him as he rode steadily along the trail. Those shots
had killed the driver, the shotgun guard and an extra guard hired for
the money transport.

When
the shots had first rung out, Laramie eased Bo off the trail and into
the surrounding stands of ponderosa. His nose filled with the scent
of the pine as he climbed down from his Mexican saddle and crept
forward to get a better view. One thing he'd learned in his
forty-five years, was that you don't rush into a situation you know
nothing about.

From
his vantage point, he'd seen all he needed, to know what had happened
and now there was a choice to make. Become involved, or ride far
around and keep ahead of the posse that dogged his trail.

“Oh
hell,” Laramie said as he stood up and stretched out the kinks,
“We all gotta die some day.”

*

Ten
miles to the East, in a patch of rocky ground off the main trail, a
tall Blackfoot warrior looked down upon the lifeless bodies of his
brother and brother's wife. The rage slowly built in Black Elk and a
slight tremble was, for the moment, the only outward sign. Judging by
the tracks, Lame Bear and Lost Dove had been ambushed by six men. His
brother had been shot three times in an attempt to protect his wife.
Lost Dove had not been so lucky. The beautiful young Indian woman,
with flawless skin, had been abused by her killers until her torment
was ended by a slash to her throat.

Black
Elk walked methodically around the horrific scene, and studied all
the sign. The afternoon sun beat down on his muscular frame as he
bent on one knee and gently touched the earth where Lost Dove's blood
had seeped into the soil. He gathered some dirt, and rubbed it
between his fingers. The pair had been killed early that morning he
decided. Black Elk stood and wiped his fingers on his deerskin
breeches, his eyes followed the trail of the long gone riders.

The
time for grief would come later. Revenge was foremost in his mind as
he began to gather up the bodies and return them to his camp. With a
large group of his warriors, he would then hunt down these evil men
and kill them very slowly.

*

Laramie
rode in on the trail from the South-West. He swayed easily with the
big appaloosa's gait as it picked the way along the trail. Bo had
been given to him by a Cheyenne warrior some time back. Laramie had
helped save him from a blood hungry group of settlers who'd sought
the justice of lynch law. When asked what the crime was, the leader
of the maddened group could only reason that he was, “Indian”.

As
Laramie rode into the station yard, he found himself confronted by
the Indian, Lone wolf and the baby faced killer, Benny. Both barred
his way with raised Winchesters.

“Who
are you Mister?” challenged Benny.

“Who
wants to know?” Laramie asked belligerently.

“I
do,” came Benny's short reply.

Laramie
shrugged, “Just a stranger passin' through.”

Benny
ran a careful eye over the gunfighter. He was unsure on what to do
next. This man didn't look like a normal stranger passin' through.

“You
fellers look like you've had some trouble here,” Laramie
observed as he nodded at the bodies stretched out on the ground.

Benny
smiled coldly, “Nothin' we couldn't handle.

Laramie's
tone hardened when next he spoke, “How about you fellers get
those saddle guns out of my face.”

Not
one to take a backward step, Benny replied, “How about I just
shoot you .”

“That's
enough,” Harbin's voice was a harsh rasp, “don't you
dimwit's know greatness when you see it?”

Benny
spat in the dirt, “All I see is a bum on horse back.”

“This
'bum' as you called him,” Harbin informed Benny, “just
happens to be Laramie Davis, the second fastest gun in the
territory.”

“You'd
be the fastest, Blackie?” asked Laramie.

Harbin
smiled, “Of course.”

Laramie
indicated the stiffening bodies on the ground, “I see you've
been hard at work.”

Harbin
shrugged nonchalantly, “One of the hazards of the job.”

“Let
me shoot him Blackie,” Benny said gleefully.

“Shut
your whinin', boy,” Harbin snarled, “take the man's horse
and put it in the corral. When you've done that, get rid of those
bodies before they start stinkin' up the place.”

Laramie
climbed down and let Benny have his horse, “Treat him careful
boy,” Laramie warned, “I'm kinda partial to that animal.
I'd hate for anything to happen to him.”

Laramie
turned his attention back to Harbin, “It's been a long time
Blackie.”

“Sure
has Laramie,” Harbin agreed, “You've changed some.”

“A
little older,” Laramie allowed, “but, I see you ain't
changed any.”

Harbin's
eyes glittered wickedly, “Nope, I sure ain't. So you'd best
remember that.”

Laramie
let the open challenge go and nodded in acknowledgement.

“Anyway,”
Harbin eased the tension in the air, “Chris is cookin' some
grub. Maybe you're hungry.”

The
two men walked into the station. Laramie let his eyes adjust to the
lower light and with a gaze that had kept him alive this long, took
in everything before him.

The
main room was a large, open area that held timber dining tables and
chairs. A small bar was built against the far wall and a large
fireplace, surrounded by wooden panels, would fill the room with
sufficient heat to ward off the chill of the cold winters that
occurred here in the mountains. There were four doors that lead off
the main area, and all were closed. Laramie guessed three were rooms
while the fourth would be, hopefully, a back way out. Hidden away in
a corner, was a large wood stove, where a man stood and cooked.

At a
table with a check table cloth, sat two other men. They each had a
shot glass of whiskey in front of them, and both men stared at
Laramie.

Recognition
flared in the face of one, “Ahh shoot, howdy Laramie.”

“Howdy
Slate, what are you doin' ridin' with this pack of no goods?”
Laramie inquired. The last he knew of Slate was that he had settled
down from his petty outlaw days, and gone back to earning an honest
living.

“Yeah,
well,” Slate shrugged, “the whole workin' hard for a
livin' didn't work out. You know how it is. What are you doin' around
here?”

“Headin'
for Canada,” Laramie answered honestly.

“Are
things getting' too hot for you? The great Laramie Davis,”
Harbin's sarcasm hung heavily in the air.

“I
shot a Sheriff's deputy,” Laramie reluctantly explained, “It
was self defence but his father was the local judge and the family
was set on hangin' me.”

Unable
to contain his amusement, Blackie Harbin laughed out loud. It sounded
more like a donkey braying than anything human, “Well, well,
welcome to the other side.”

The
seriousness of the situation penetrated Harbin's brief moment of
happiness and a darkness fell across his face, “Son of a...Did
you bring a God damned posse down on us Laramie?” Harbin
exploded, “If you have I'll kill you right now!”

“Calm
down,” said Laramie reassuringly, and he tried to ease the
tension that had developed with his admission, “I lost the
posse yesterday.”

Blackie
eased his hand away from the butt of the Colt on his left side, “Just
as well.”

One of
the closed doors squeaked open, and through it walked the woman from
the stage. She had changed her clothes. The blue dress had gone and
had been replaced by denim pants and a man's cotton shirt, which was
tucked in and accentuated the curves of her slim body. She walked
silently and swiftly to a vacant table, as far removed from the
others as she could get.

“Food's
ready,” Chris called from over by the stove.

It was
the first time that Laramie had noticed the aroma which drifted
across the room, and he thought to himself that it smelled pretty
good.

“About
time,” Harbin said.

Laramie
watched as the outlaws grabbed tin plates and slopped stew onto them.
He looked across at the woman and noticed that she hadn't moved. She
showed no indication that the call for food even reached her.

“Are
you eatin' or what Mister Legend?” Chris asked from beside the
stove.

Laramie
nodded and grabbed two tin plates and held them out for the outlaw to
fill. He filled the first plate but left the second empty and
challenged Laramie with a stare.

“Fill
it,” Laramie said flatly.

“You
only need one,” Chris pointed out and remained unmoved.