High Valley Manhunt: Laramie Davies #1 (3 page)

“It's
for the lady. Now fill it,” Laramie said and gave Chris a
withering stare.

The
outlaw shrugged and filled the plate, and in the process slopped a
little of the hot food on Laramie's hand, “Sorry,” he
apologised, “Missed it.”

Laramie
let it go, found two relatively clean forks, and turned away from the
grinning outlaw. He took both plates to where the woman was seated
and sat down. He nudged one of the plates towards her with a fork.

She
looked Laramie squarely in the eye and said with open hostility, “I'm
not hungry.”

“You
best eat Miss, you'll probably be needin' it,” Laramie said
softly.

Frustrated,
the woman said, “I told you, I'm not hungry.”

“Is
our company not good enough for you, Mister Legend?” It was
Benny. He'd come inside from his chores, having buried the dead, sat
at a table with the others, and wolfed down his stew.

Laramie
ignored the barb Benny threw at him and continued to eat his
surprisingly tasty stew.

“Didn't
you hear me Legend?” Benny asked around a mouthful of his meal,
“Ain't we good enough for the likes of you. Or maybe us big,
bad outlaws scare the pants off you.”

Laramie
lifted his gaze to the woman who sat across from him. Her worried
expression pleaded with him not to start anything. He nodded almost
imperceptibly and it was enough to relieve some of her tension.

Benny
couldn't help himself and continued to push, “You know what
fellers? I think this old has been is yeller!”

Every
person in the Four Trails way station put down their forks, except
for Laramie. The others waited for the gunman to stand and take up
the kid's challenge. Instead, Laramie said coolly, “Blackie,
you'd best tell that young pup to back off before his mouth digs his
grave.”

“Why
you...” Benny lunged to his feet. His chair skidded back and
fell as he clawed at one of his Peacemakers. As he drew, a shot
thundered, the sound loud and deafening as it bounced off the timber
walls. Benny's gun tumbled to the floor and he grabbed at the bloody
furrow, the bullet from Harbin's Colt had gouged out.

“If
I want him dead boy, I'll do the shootin',” Blackie Harbin
growled in a low voice, as he held a smoking gun, “not you.
Just you keep that in mind.”

“Damn
Blackie, you shot me,” Benny whined

“The
next time I shoot you will be for keeps.”

The
woman sat horrified as she watched Laramie casually continue to eat
his stew.

No one
saw that Slate had drawn his gun under the table, and had it pointed
in Benny's direction.

After
Harbin slid his gun back into its well oiled holster, he leaned close
to the table and spoke quietly, “You boys keep an eye on him.
He's up to somethin'. I know it and before we leave here tomorrow I
want him dead.”

“You
best eat up Miss, before your meal goes cold,” Laramie said,
and calmly showed no outward sign of concern for the situation.

“Who
are you?” The woman finally asked, overcoming her shock.

“The
name's Laramie Davis, Miss,” he answered her question.

She
mulled his name over in her mind for a moment before realisation
finally came, “I know your name,” she gasped, “You're
that Gunman, that killer.”

“Some
have called me that,” he allowed, “others a lot worse.”

She
was amazed he could talk like that, like it didn't matter, “You
are no better than they are.”

For
some reason the barb from the woman stung, but he did not let it
show. She obviously didn't realise that he was able to help her,
“Miss the way I see it, you have two choices. You can stay with
these outlaws who will eventually kill you, after they've had their
fun,” he paused for a moment and let his words sink in, “or
you can trust me and maybe we will both get out of this alive. Just
remember this before you decide. I rode in here because I saw what
happened to those men they murdered. I could have ridden on, but I
didn't.”

“Why
should I trust you?”

“Seems
to me you don't have much choice, Miss.”

The
young lady sighed resignedly, “If I'm to put my life in your
hands, you may as well know my name. It's Sally Richards.”

Laramie
smiled warmly, “So, where are you from Sally Richards?”

“Mountain
Pass,”

“Say,
you're Pa wouldn't be Hank Richards would it?” Laramie asked,
surprised.

“Yes
it is,” Sally confirmed.

“Is
he still town Sheriff?”

“Yes,
but how did you know that?” Sally asked, a confused look on her
face.

“The
old days Miss. We rode together some before he decided to settle down
and take good care of his family,” Laramie explained.

Sally
looked indignant, “My father was a United States Marshal, not
some common gunman.”

“Yes
Miss, he was,” Laramie agreed, “so was I.”

“You
were a Marshal?” Sally asked in disbelief.

“Sure
was,” Laramie confirmed.

“I'll
vouch for that Miss,” neither one of them had noticed Slate
approach the table, “then he added quickly, “I need to
talk to you later Laramie. Outside, after dark.”

Laramie
didn't answer, but gave a slight incline of his head. Slate moved on
and left Laramie to ponder on his words.

Silence
descended over the table.

The
afternoon progressed to early evening. The sun dropped behind the
mountains and day slowly turned into night. Stars sparkled like
diamonds in the sky and the large moon cast its silvery glow over the
landscape, and thus kept the night from total darkness.

Inside
the way station, all of the outlaws lounged around, except for Benny.
He sat on a chair, a scowl on his face directed at Laramie. The
gunman knew the time would come that he would have to kill the kid.
He just didn't know when the move would be made.

After
the evening meal of leftover stew, Laramie excused himself from the
table he sat at with Sally and walked towards the door which led
outside. The audible triple click of a gun hammer being thumbed back
sounded loud in the confines of the station house, “Where do
you think you're goin' Laramie?”

The
gunfighter froze, then turned and faced Harbin, “I'm goin' to
check on my horse.”

Harbin
shook his head, “Nope. You stay right here. Benny put it in the
corral, it's fine.”

“If
you're worried about me runnin' off, why don't you send a man along
to keep me company. Besides when I leave here, I'm takin' the lady
with me.”

“That's
mighty big talk for a man faced with six guns,” Harbin pointed
out.

“Maybe
so,” Laramie agreed, “but I have two six-guns, each with
six shots. That's twelve bullets. Now I probably won't get all six of
you but that won't worry you none, because you'll be dead first.”

Laramie's
hands edged closer to his Remingtons, “You decide Blackie, but
make it quick, I ain't got all day.”

Tension
in the room built and Harbin licked his lips. The outlaw's gun was
out and cocked but Laramie's calmness in the face of death, had
unnerved him.

“I'll
go and keep an eye on him Blackie,” Slate's voice broke the
tension.

It was
the out Harbin needed, and he eased down the hammer on his gun, “Fine
Slate, you go. But don't be out there too long.”

“No
problem,” Slate said and followed Laramie out the door.

Outside
the clear night air had a crisp feel about it and pricked the exposed
skin of both men. Once they were away from the building, Slate said
in bewilderment, “damn Laramie, were you tryin' to get yourself
killed in there.”

“Don't
worry none about that,” the gunfighter said and looked about to
see if they were alone, “what did you want to talk to me
about?”

Slate
sighed and informed him, “They're goin' to kill you before they
leave tomorrow.”

“Why
are you tellin' me this?” Laramie enquired.

“I'm
thinkin' if I help you, you can help me.” Slate explained a
little.

Laramie's
interest was piqued, “How do I get to help you.”

“
I need to get away from Harbin,” he said, “The man is
crazy. He just kills and kills and he don't stop. You ever seen the
look in his eye when he does it? He enjoys it. Most of them do. That
damn Benny, I swear he's Harbin's kid. He gets the same look. I just
gotta get away from 'em Laramie.”

Laramie
listened in silence and thought before he answered. He looked at
Slate and saw the pleading in his eyes and realised that he may come
in handy when it was time, “Alright Slate we'll do it your
way.”

Slate's
relief was obvious as his face came to life, “Your best
opportunity to escape will be tonight while I'm on watch. If you can
get out, I'll have horses ready and we'll be gone well and truly
before they wake up.”

“Make
sure you are ready,” Laramie said seriously, “because if
Blackie and his boys wake up, we'll need to shoot our way out.”

“Don't
worry, we'll be ready.”

Laramie
checked on Bo, and the appaloosa crossed to him and nuzzled his hand
as he held it out to rub the horse's nose, “Hang in there big
feller, it won't be long now. We'll be gone come mornin' and I'll be
needin' everythin' you have.”

*

Amongst
the cedar and cottonwoods, beside a fast flowing creek, the posse had
made camp for the night. In the wilderness surrounding their camp, a
Grey Wolf's low, mournful howl made the horses fidget nervously at
their tethers.

“Whoa,
horses,” soothed Orson Blake, “he's just callin' to his
friends. He don't want to eat you tonight. Might take a chunk out of
old Grover over there though.”

“That
ain't funny Orson,” grouched Grover Yates, the oldest man in
the posse, “I heard tell about a bunch of trappers once, camped
up in these mountains. They left a feller on watch one night and when
they woke up the next mornin' he was gone. All they found was a bunch
of wolf tracks and his old Hawken rifle.”

Orson
Blake laughed at the old store owner, “And you actually believe
that story Grover?”

“It's
a true story Orson, it was told to me by one of them mountain men
personally,” Grover said, indignant that Orson would make fun
of the tale.

Jebediah
Coltrain stalked out of the darkness and stopped in front of the two
posse men, “When you two are finished with your bed time
stories, you might want to keep watch. We ain't the only ones out
here you know, or did you forget the Indian pony tracks we came
across this afternoon?”

“Sure
thing sheriff,” mumbled Orson Blake, “we'll get right
back to it.”

“And
damned well stay awake. I don't want to be wakin' up in the middle of
the night with some savage redskin standin' over me holdin' my hair
in his hand.” Coltrain ordered.

Jeb
left them to it and strode back into camp where the rest of the posse
were camped out. There were seven men who formed the Judge's
vengeance posse; not all of them willing. There was the Judge, Jeb
Coltrain, Shell Coltrain and Jim Clancy. Orson Blake and Grover Yates
were on watch, while the seventh man, Clay Adams, stirred the fire
under the coffee pot.

“Don't
go makin' that fire too big Clay,” cautioned Jeb Coltrain,
“Don't want to be givin' away our position to any of them
redskins floatin' around out there.”

Clay
grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it on the orange flames to damp
them down some. He was a thin, young cow hand from one of the ranches
that surrounded Rock Springs. He happened to be in the wrong place at
the right time and got pushed into a posse against his will. He
wasn't alone. Grover and Orson were in the same boat.

Jim
Clancy, on the other hand, was a gunman. He was tall and willowy, was
in his early thirties, and wore his dark hair collar length. His grey
eyes moved constantly. He worked for the Coltrains when they paid him
for it. He wasn't fussy, especially when the price was right.

“What
was that you said?” Zeb Coltrain asked his brother, “Did
you see more Indian sign out there?”

The
Sheriff shook his head, “Nope, didn't see a thing, except two
no good greenhorns lookin' the wrong damned way. Don't mean they
ain't out there though.”

“So
is that filthy murderer who killed my boy,” snapped the Judge.

“We'll
pick up his trail tomorrow Zeb. We know he's headin' towards the
border,” the sheriff spoke matter of factly.

The
judge struggled to his feet and looked his brother hard in the eyes,
his flabby jowls quivered with pent up rage, “I don't care if
the killer gets across the damn border into Canada. We will not stop
until he is dead. Do you understand?”

The
Judge looked around the group and lay down the challenge, “Do
you all understand? When you rode out of Rock Springs you signed on
until the end,” he reached inside his coat pocket and pulled
out his imported Webley Bulldog pocket revolver, “I will damn
well shoot any man who tries to back out!”

“Ease
up Judge,” Jeb cautioned, “no man's backin' out. You keep
that up and we'll be buryin' you next.”

The
big man put his gun away and sat down, “Just you make sure they
don't”

“We'll
ride to Four Trails swing station tomorrow Judge,” Jeb
explained to his brother, “He'll have to ride through there to
get to the border. Besides, he can't hide forever. That damn horse of
his is a dead give away. We should reach there sometime in the
morning, of course that depends on how much them damn townsfolk slow
us down.”

Judge
Zebulon Coltrain gave no indication that he'd heard his brother's
last words. He just sat and stared at the orange flames of the camp
fire as it flickered in the dark and licked hungrily at the small
branches that fed its being. The fire would slowly devour the wood
just as the burning hatred in the Judge would eventually consume him.

*

One by
one, the outlaws at Four Trails fell into a deep slumber, helped
along by the contents of three bottles of whiskey from behind the
bar. Laramie watched them intently from under the brim of his dark
coloured Stetson as they dropped off.

It was
almost midnight, and Lone Wolf and Slate had been on watch for three
hours. At one point, Laramie had thought that not all the outlaws
would give in to the peaceful murmurings of sleep.

The
sandy headed Cato was the last to succumb and it wasn't long before
his soft snore joined the chorus of the others.

With a
small sigh of relief, Laramie eased his feet from the chair they
rested on and slowly tilted the Stetson back so he could see more
clearly in the low glow of the lantern light. He sat up and
cautiously looked for any indication that the outlaws were aware of
his movements.

None
of them stirred, so Laramie, careful to make no noise, stood up and
waited before he moved. Stealthily he crept towards the door which
Sally waited behind nervously.

Laramie
tried the handle and it turned easily. He pushed the door open and
slipped through the narrow gap. He closed the door and the latch
clicked shut. He heard Sally expel an anxious breath.

“Thank
God it's you Laramie,” she whispered, “I was beginning to
think you weren't coming.”

Laramie
placed a hand on her arm to quiet her, “When we leave, the only
way to go is through that main area where the outlaws are sleeping.
Try to be as quiet as possible. If anything goes bad, run out the
door and don't look back. Slate will get you away from here.”

“What
about you?” The concern was clear in her hushed tone.

“Don't
worry about me. Slate will have horses ready. You get on one and
don't stop until you are well clear of here. He will take you to your
father.”

“Okay.”

“Are
you ready?” he asked.

“Yes,”
Sally answered apprehensively.

Laramie's
voice grew grim, “Follow me.”

He
stood before the door and took a deep breath, then dropped his hand
to one of his Remingtons, drew it from its holster, and thumbed back
the hammer. It was hard to tell which was louder, the triple click of
the gun, or the sound of his breath, as both seemed thunderous in the
darkness.

Laramie
levelled his hand gun and once more opened the door. It gave a slight
squeak and to his ears, it sounded like someone had dropped an armful
of pots and pans on the floor. He froze when one of the outlaws
stirred, Cato he thought, or maybe Chris. He waited uneasily for whom
ever it was, to return to sleep. He eased forward through the doorway
and out into the main room of the way station. Sally was close
behind, and he prayed silently under his breath that nothing would
happen to endanger her life.

They
reached the halfway point of the room, Laramie now acutely aware of
any changes in the outlaw's breathing patterns. Benny snorted, moaned
and mumbled something incoherent. There was a small gasp from Sally,
and the gunfighter hoped she could hold her nerve. He watched as
Benny rolled over, then continued his soft snores.

The
pair moved on and finally reached the door that lead outside.
Laramie's hand touched the door handle and paused before he turned
it. The handle turned silently and he eased the door open with a
grimace. No alarm was sounded.

With
his arm around Sally, the gunfighter guided her through the door
first, then followed, and shut it gently behind them.

Laramie
belatedly remembered something that caused a small flash of alarm in
him. Lone Wolf , the Crow Indian, was on watch, somewhere out there
in the darkness. He hoped like hell that Slate had managed to take
care of him.

*

Slate
had indeed taken care of the Indian and Lone Wolf was now laid out
and trussed in the barn behind the corral. He saddled the horses they
would need for their flight,and settled in to wait for Laramie and
the woman.

After
what seemed an eternal wait, and the hope that none of the other
outlaws or even Blackie himself would emerge, Slate started to lose
hope and thought seriously about making a run for it. He figured he'd
ride east, far away from where he was now, and far away from any
living soul who knew him.

Two
figures moved past the corral towards the barn. Slate tensed for a
moment and then realised it was Laramie and the woman.

“About
time you two turned up,” Slate said softly, relief evident, “I
was gettin' set to ride without you. Didn't think you were comin'”

“It
took your friends in there a while to get to sleep,” Laramie
explained, “Where is Lone Wolf?”

“I
have him tucked away in the barn. He won't be getting' free any time
soon.”

The
gunfighter nodded, “Good. Right then, let's put some distance
between us and here before the others wake up and work out somethin'
is wrong.”

Slate
had the horses ready behind the barn. Bo gave a low nicker when
Laramie neared and the gunfighter gave the big horse a reassuring rub
on his muscular neck.

“I
hope they don't wake up while we're riding out of here,” Sally
voiced her concerns.

“We'll
lead the horses until we're out of earshot, then mount up,”
Laramie explained to Sally.