High Valley Manhunt: Laramie Davies #1 (4 page)

As
quietly as possible, they led the three horses out of the barn and
past the corral. Once clear, Laramie gave Slate Bo's reins and
whispered, “Keep goin', I'll let their horses out to give us
more of an advantage.”

While
the others disappeared into the darkness, Laramie dropped the two
Lodge Pole rails used as a gate. The horses milled about skittishly,
unused to the strange man who walked among them. Once inside the
corral, he gently urged the horses toward the opening, careful not to
spook them, and keep noise to a minimum. They walked through the
opening and out into the meadow.

Laramie
caught up with Sally and Slate in the tree line that circled the
meadow, “Where to now?” Slate asked him.

“Into
the mountains,” he answered.

Sally
was a little surprised by this, “Why? Why the mountains?
Shouldn't we take the trail and try to get to Mountain Pass?”

“We
are goin' to Mountain Pass, Sally,” Laramie answered
truthfully, “but we're takin' the long way around. From here, I
mean to go to Beaver Meadow. Don't forget I'm bein' followed by that
posse from Rock Springs. If Blackie comes after us, which I think he
will, I want to try to lose them all in the mountains. If they
flounder around lookin' for our trail, all the better for us. Now
stop gabbin' and get on your horses.”

*

Two
hours before dawn, a man stepped from of the tree line close to Four
Trails way station, closely followed by another.

“Are
you sure they are here?” the first man asked.

“I
am sure.”

The
first man stared at the way station and grunted a reply. Both men
stood and watched in silence for a short while before they melted
quietly back into the trees.

“Get
up!” roared Blackie Harbin as he kicked Cato savagely in the
ribs, “Why in hell are you not on watch?”

Cato
struggled to sit up, and held his side where Harbin had delivered the
blow, “What the hell Blackie? What did you do that for?”

The
others started to stir, and Benny asked through his waking fog,
“What's goin' on Blackie?”

“What's
goin' on Blackie?” The furious outlaw leader mimicked, “I'll
tell you what's goin' on! You and this damned lunk head here were
meant to be on watch hours ago. Instead, I wake up and find you still
asleep in here. Not to mention, Laramie and the damn woman have
gone!”

This
last statement snapped all of the outlaws wide awake, “How
could they be gone?” asked Chris warily.

“Because
they damn well had help,” Harbin fumed, “When I woke up
and saw Davis gone, I checked on the woman and found her gone too!
Then I went outside and guess what? Slate was gone too! As were the
horses! After that, I found Lone Wolf tied up in the barn!”

Cato,
Chris and Benny remained silent; they thought it best, under the
circumstances. With Blackie's mood the way it was, there was a good
chance he would shoot someone.

Harbin's
rant continued, “So right at this point in time Lone Wolf is
lookin' for sign as to which way they went. What you three are goin'
to do, is get our damn horses back that they let go! Now get the hell
out there!”

The
outlaws snatched up their weapons and filed quickly out the door,
eager to escape their boss's wrath. Harbin followed close behind.
Half way across the station yard, Lone wolf jogged in, concern etched
on his normally impassive face.

“Hold
them up Blackie,” he said hurriedly, “get them back
inside, now!”

Harbin
was confused, “Why? We need them horses back. They lost 'em and
they can damn well get them back.”

“There's
Blackfeet in the trees,” the Crow explained rapidly, “we
need to be back inside.”

Before
Harbin could speak, a soft whistle filled the air followed by a dull
thunk as a Blackfoot arrow hit Chris in the chest. The outlaw looked
down in bewilderment at the protrusion that he had sprouted. He
looked up at Cato, “Damn Cato, I think I'm dead.”

Chris'
knees folded and he fell to the ground.

A
dozen Blackfoot warriors emerged swiftly from the trees, and caught
the outlaws unprepared. More arrows reined down, but narrowly missed
targets. Harbin was the first to react, “Take cover, damn it!
Don't stand around gapin' at him, he's dead.”

Harbin
brought up his six-guns and cut loose. The Blackfeet scattered as one
of their number went down wounded, a crimson patch stood out against
his skin.

The
outlaws slowly retreated toward the cover of the station house. Benny
had both his Colts out, and worked them methodically. The Indians
soon found good cover, and after the loss of the first brave, the
outlaws found it difficult to find a target.

Lone
Wolf shouted a warning above the gun fire and Harbin turned. The Crow
pointed at something behind the corral. There were almost two dozen
more Blackfeet, but these were armed with rifles. Whilst the outlaw's
attention had been drawn by the direct attack in front, the others
had slipped out of the thick forest behind them.

Hell,
thought Harbin before he called out to the others at the top of his
voice, “Get back inside! The devils are behind us too.”

The
outlaws turned to face the new threat. The air was instantly filled
with the snap of bullets that passed close. One tugged at Harbin's
sleeve, while another made a red furrow along Cato's arm, and caused
him to cry out in pain.

The
outlaws immediately ceased fire and hurriedly made for the way
station's main door. Benny wasn't so quick to retreat. The kid had a
hero complex and thought that he was invincible, bulletproof. A
bullet nicked his thigh. Not enough to disable him, but enough to
cause pain and make Benny realise that perhaps he wasn't immortal
after all.

The
kid was hot on Blackie Harbin's heels when the outlaw leader dived
through the doorway. The tough hardwood door slammed shut and the
locking bar was thrust across and wedged in place.

Glass
shattered as the outlaws took up positions by the windows. Rifle
barrel's poked through and started to bark.

“Cato,
how's that arm of yours?” Harbin shouted over the din.

Cato
kept firing and said, “Flesh wound Blackie, I'll worry about it
later.”

“Good,
you and Lone Wolf watch the back. Make sure it's secure.”

Without
a word Cato and the Crow, hurried across to the other side of the
building and into rooms at the rear. It wasn't long before their
guns fired again, and held the attack from that side at bay.

Harbin
reloaded his rifle and sneaked a glance around the corner of the
window frame. The Indians were closer now and some were in the yard.
One Indian rose up from behind a water trough and loosed an arrow
which embedded itself in the outside wall only inches from the window
frame Harbin was at. It caused him to flinch as he ducked back and
cursed out loud.

“God
damn Redskins, what the hell are they doin' here?”

“I'll
give you one guess?” Benny answered.

“Yeah,
well let's see if we can kill us some more.”

Harbin
thrust his rifle back through the broken window pane and fired
another volley of shots. Two Indians went down in a heap out in the
open. One didn't move, but the other writhed in pain, which only
ceased when a bullet from Benny's rifle mercifully ended his
suffering.

Benny
shifted his aim and fired at a warrior who approached from the right.
The Brave cried out and through the gun smoke, Benny watched him go
down clutching at his middle. After Blackie wounded another one, the
Blackfeet pulled back behind cover and into the trees.

The
gunfire from inside the way station died off and all went quiet. The
main room was filled with the blue grey mist of gun smoke and the
smell of burnt powder.

Outside,
Harbin could see at least six unmoving warriors on the ground. Who
knew how many wounded had gotten away. He looked around and saw a
rivulet of blood that coursed down the side of Benny's face, “are
you okay kid?”

Benny
wiped the side of his face and saw blood as his hand came away,
“Yeah, just a scratch. A bullet came through the window and
caught some glass left in the frame, smashed it and a splinter must
have nicked me.”

Harbin
then noticed the wet patch of blood on the the thigh of Benny's black
pants, “What about that?”

Benny
shrugged nonchalantly.

“Keep
an eye out, I'll see how the others are farin',” Harbin said.

Blackie
checked on Lone Wolf who was fine, and resolutely guarded his window.
When he checked on Cato, he found that he also, held vigil at a
window.

“How's
the arm?” Blackie asked, he'd noticed red on the shirt sleeve.

“Hurts
like a bitch but once we get a bit more time, I'll patch it up
proper.”

“How
many do you figure are out back here?” Harbin asked.

Cato
wasn't sure, “I think we took care of four or so, but if I had
to hazard a guess, I would say maybe fifteen or sixteen are left.”

Harbin
nodded thoughtfully, “Well one thing's for sure, they got us
surrounded.”

“You
know why they're here don't you?” said Cato.

Harbin
nodded but before he could speak, Benny's voice called out in alarm,
“They're comin' again Blackie.”

Benny's
rifle started its deadly work once more.

The
outlaw boss smiled coldly, “And here I was hopin' they was
goin' to give up. Keep your head down Cato.”

“How
are we goin' to get out of this one, Blackie?” Cato asked,
concerned.

Harbin
called over his shoulder on the way out of the small room, “Hell,
just hope they run out of Indians before we run out of bullets.”

*

It was
a faint sound, carried on the morning breeze up the valley between
the two snow capped mountains. Laramie pulled back on Bo's reins and
the big horse eased to a stop beside a large outcrop of granite.
Sally and Slate stopped their mounts as well.

“What's
up?” Slate asked, curious as to why they had stopped.

Laramie
held up his finger for them both to stay quiet. His ears strained to
pick out the sound again, but his persistence was rewarded, “there,
did you hear that?”

Slate
nodded slowly, unsure. He'd heard something but didn't know what.

“There
it is again,” confirmed the gunfighter.

“I
heard it that time,” Slate agreed.

“Heard
what?” Sally asked, confused.

“Gunfire,”
explained Slate.

“What
do you make of it?” Laramie asked.

“Do
you think it's coming from Four Trails?” asked Slate.

Laramie
took off his hat and ran a hand through his brown hair before he
replaced it, “Could be,” he allowed, “but I don't
plan on goin' back to find out.”

Laramie
heeled Bo forward and the horse responded smoothly. Sally and the
outlaw, Slate followed behind.

Eventually
the trio entered a valley, one of many in this part of the mountains,
not too distant from Four Trails. It was narrow and filled with
immense stands of ponderosa and douglas fir. At its end, where the
valley narrowed to what seemed to be a triangle point, the trail
climbed up to a pass named after a French trapper who'd worked the
area in the early eighteen twenties. None of the mountain men of the
time could pronounce his name properly so the pass just became known
as Frenchie's.

From
there, the trail dropped down into another valley which was a vast
expanse of meadows and streams. A small lake sat on the valley's
south side surrounded by various vegetation that included, Fir trees,
Red Cedar and Western Hemlock. Elk and Mule deer were prevalent and
it was not unusual to see Grey Wolf or a roaming Grizzly.

A mile
further on from the lake, was a large beaver pond. It was stream fed
by cool, clear water which ran down from the snowcapped ridges that
bordered the valley. It was surrounded by grass and wild flowers and
at its outlet end, Beavers had built a sturdy dam from the Lodge Pole
pines and Aspen sited nearby.

It was
here that a log cabin sat. This was Laramie's destination.

The
three of them had only travelled a further thirty yards along the
feint trail, when they were stopped by Laramie again. He listened for
a moment then called, “Get off the trail, quick!”

The
trio immediately guided their horses off the trail and into a thick
stand of Pine. Laramie and Slate dismounted then worked to keep the
horses quiet. Soon after, Sally heard the reason for the group's
hasty retreat into cover.

At
first there came a low rumble which grew steadily louder. Around a
blind bend, appeared maybe fifteen Blackfoot warriors as they
thundered down the trail, bent low over their mounts to urge them on
faster.

From
where he sat, Laramie could see the war paint daubed on their faces.
He frowned. This was the first he knew of trouble with the Blackfeet.
Things had been peaceful for a long while.

The
Indians disappeared down the trail and the drum of hooves gradually
receded until the noise was gone.

“Looks
like we weren't the only ones to hear all that gunfire,” Slate
observed.

“Looks
like,” agreed the gunfighter, “But what I don't
understand, is why those braves were painted for war.”

“I
noticed that too,” said Slate.

“But
there has been no trouble with them for a long time, so why now? What
made them put on paint now?” Laramie wondered aloud.

“Who
knows,” shrugged Slate, but the expression on his face clearly
showed that he had more knowledge of the situation than he let on.

Laramie
was suspicious but refused to say anything at the moment. There would
be time enough for that later. They needed to put distance between
them and whatever it was that had the Blackfeet so riled. He climbed
back into the saddle and gave Bo a slight touch with his heels and
the Horse walked out of the trees, “Come on then, let's go. But
keep an eye out for any more Indians. The last thing we need is them
on our trail.”