High Valley Manhunt: Laramie Davies #1 (6 page)

“Nope,
no problem at all law man.”

Behind
them, a disturbance near the horses grabbed their attention and they
turned to see Shell and Benny faced off, their hands hovered over
their gun butts.

“What
did you say?” Benny hissed.

“I
said you're a damn wannabe,” Shell spat.

“We'll
see about that. What say we find out how good I really am?”
bragged Benny.

“You
call it, Tin horn,” came Shell's insult.

“Hold
it!”

The
words that erupted from Sheriff Jeb Coltrain's lips, stayed both
hands, “There'll be no gun play. Here or anywhere else for that
matter.”

Benny
started to speak, “He damn well...”

“Benny,
shut up!” Blackie Harbin bellowed, “Go and take first
watch.”

“But...”

“Just
do it!”

Benny
glared at Shell Coltrain then turned quickly and stalked off, the
mumble under his breath almost inaudible.

“You
too, Shell,” said the Sheriff.

The
deputy opened his mouth to protest.

“Get
gone,” his uncle said as he flung his arm into the air and
overrode him.

Blackie
watched Shell go and said, “I have a feelin' things are goin'
to be mighty interestin' around here Law dog.”

“Ain't
that the truth,” Jeb agreed, “just remember, I didn't
pass out most of our spare ammunition just for you and yours to shoot
us with.”

*

“Hold
your fire you damned old ridge runner,” Laramie said and held
up his hands, “Are you blind or somethin'?”

“Hell,
I know that voice,” Lonesome Lane said, surprised, “Laramie,
is that you boy?”

“Yeah
Lonesome, it's me,” the gunfighter confirmed.

“Well
shoot boy,” beamed Lonesome as he lowered the Hawken, “get
your butt off that damn mule of yours and over here where I can see
you proper.”

“What
about my friends?”

The
ageing trapper nodded, “Sure, them too.”

Laramie
and the others dismounted and walked over to where the old man stood.
It had been a good while since Laramie had paid Lonesome a visit, the
change evident in the colour of the Mountain man's beard which now
matched the snow white of his hair. His face held the ravages of
time, the many contours of age, and his wide shoulders looked as
though they carried the weight of the world.

“Damn
boy, what brings you all the way up here?”

Laramie
expelled a large breath and said seriously, “I have myself a
little problem.”

“A
little problem you say?” Lonesome shook his head, “Son,
I'd say that just maybe it's a little bit of an understatement,
wouldn't you.”

“Maybe,”
Laramie conceded.

The
gunfighter had filled Lonesome in on his ordeal after Sally and Slate
had been introduced to the old trapper.

“Stay
as long as you like, son,” Lonesome invited, “I haven't
had a good scrap in an age. Some excitement around here would be
good.”

Laramie
shook his head, “We'll just stay the night if it's all the
same, don't want you getting' caught up in our troubles.”

“Suit
yourself son, anyway come on inside. I reckon the young lady could
use a seat that ain't movin' around of its own accord.”

Sally
smiled warmly, “You reckon right, Mister Lane.”

Lonesome
raised his eyebrows, “And she's respectful. Come on Missy, it's
been a long time since I talked to a lovely lass such as yourself.
I'm goin' to enjoy havin' you around even if it is only for one
night.”

The
old man turned to step inside when Laramie asked, “Hey
Lonesome, do you know anythin' about the Blackfeet kickin' up a
stink.”

“First
I've heard of it,” said the trapper, who continued to walk into
the cabin.

*

Far
off up the valley, a wolf's howl was answered by the high pitched
shriek of a mountain lion. The moon was up and the clear mountain air
held a slight chill. Laramie and Slate sat in front of the cabin on
the rickety porch, where they discussed Blackie Harbin's plans

“Where
was Blackie headin' after you hit the stage?” he asked the
outlaw.

“He's
got a hideout over near Eagle Falls. Do you know where that is?”

Laramie
nodded, “Yeah, about a day's ride from Mountain Pass, where
we're headin'.”

“That's
right. There is an old abandoned minin' shack there. Blackie's been
usin' it for two years or so, and no one ever goes near the place.”

“I
find it strange that the law ain't found it,” Laramie wondered
out loud.

“Its
not that easy to find,” Slate explained, “There's a box
canyon to the north of Eagle Falls with a narrow mouth, and the
cabin's set way back in a stand of trees. Unless you know where to
look, or stumble upon it, you wouldn't know it's there.”

A
noise behind them drew their attention. Sally Richards had emerged
from the cabin unnoticed, “He's gone to sleep,” she
explained.

Slate
stood up from where he was seated and brushed himself off, “I'll
just go check the horses.”

After
he was gone, Sally said, “I didn't mean to chase him away.”

Laramie
shrugged it off, “Don't let it worry you.”

Sally
looked up at the broad expanse of the star filled sky and sighed
heavily, “It's beautiful here Laramie. I can see why Mister
Lane would choose to live here.”

“It's
certainly a special place,” he agreed, “as long as I've
known him, he's never wanted to be anywhere else.”

“Oh,
how long have you known him?”

“I
was quite a young man when I first met Lonesome. It was shortly after
I'd joined the Marshal's and I was on a job trackin' down a wanted
man,” Laramie smiled, “and I got lost.”

“Really?”

“Oh
yeah, hopelessly lost. Anyway I happened to hear some shootin' goin'
on and ridin' to the sound of the guns, I came across Lonesome havin'
a good set to with some natives. Well bein' a young buck and showin'
no fear, I rode straight into that fight and got shot.”

Sally
tried to cover her smile, “Oh, no.”

“Yes,
lookin' back now, it does seem funny,” he allowed, “but
at the time, it hurt somethin' fierce. When I came to, Lonesome had
patched me up and then brought me back here to mend. It was quite
ironic, here was me, I tried to save his life and instead it ended
up, he saved mine. We've been friends ever since. Helped me out of a
scrape a time or two as well.”

Sally
thought for a moment, “How old is he?'

The
gunfighter smiled at her, “Don't rightly know myself, but if I
had to guess I'd say he's seen a lot of seasons and leave it at that.
I do know one thing though, don't let his age fool you. Under that
crusty old exterior is one tough man, he's had to be to survive this
long.”

Sally
changed the subject, “When will we reach Mountain Pass?”

“Providin'
it all goes to plan, you'll be home in two days,” Laramie
answered. “That's if we don't have any troubles.”

“Why
did you stop?' Sally asked bluntly, “I mean, back at the way
station, you could have kept riding and forgotten all about it, not
become involved.”

“I
guess that's the Marshal in me,” he explained truthfully, “I
couldn't keep ridin'. My conscience wouldn't let me. It's a flaw that
I have. Even when I sell my gun, it's always for the right cause.”

“Can
I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure,
why not?” he answered, curious.

“If
you feel that way, why leave the Marshal Service? Surely it was
better to be a Marshal than a gunman?”

For a
moment Laramie couldn't speak. No person had asked him that question
before.

“I'm
sorry,” Sally apologised, “Please, it really is none of
my business so don't answer if you don't want to.”

“No,
it's fine,” Laramie replied and tried to ease her
embarrassment, “what it boils down to, is the choice wasn't
mine. The Marshal's let me go.”

Sally
was confused, “But why? If you were so good at your job, what
possible reason could they have to let you go?”

Laramie
told her the story, “All my life I've been good with a gun, so
when I joined the Marshal's they would give me special assignments.
The tough nuts to crack, so to speak. The main job that came my way
was to bring law and order to wild towns. Pretty soon I became known
as the Marshal's specialist Town Tamer.”

He
paused before he continued, “The more towns I tamed, the bigger
my reputation became and before long, I was looked upon as a hired
gun more than a United States Marshal. Shortly after that, the
Marshal's decided it was a reputation they didn't want associated
with the law, so they let me go.”

“I'm
sorry,” Sally said quietly.

“Don't
be, lookin' back now, they were probably right.”

There
was an uneasy silence for a few moments before Laramie said, “You'd
best turn in. We have us a long ride comin' up tomorrow.”

“Yes,
you're right,” Sally agreed as she stood up, “goodnight
Laramie.”

“Goodnight
Sally.”

*

Shortly
after dawn, three steaming plates of food sat in front of the men.
Laramie looked at the brown, gluey substance and then questioningly
at Sally.

“What
is it?” he asked cautiously.

“You
don't want to know,” she blanched in disgust.

He
looked across the table at Lonesome who shovelled great forkfuls of
whatever it was, into his mouth. Slate on the other hand, ate
tentatively, like a bird would peck at seeds on the ground.

Laramie
looked once more at Sally who shook her head slightly to discourage
him from the pile on his plate. He frowned, aware that something was
wrong, and it wasn't until Lonesome spoke, that he found out what it
was.

“Missy,”
the old Trapper garbled, his mouth half full of food, “this
just has to be the best skunk stew I've eaten since Fifty-Eight.”

Laramie
screwed up his face and pushed the old tin plate away. He glanced
across at Slate who had turned a slight shade of green and excused
himself quickly as he expelled the contents of his mouth.

The
gunfighter looked at Sally, “Where's yours?”

Her
expression stoic, she said, “Thanks, but I've already eaten.”

Laramie
was about to say more when a noise from outside drew his attention.
He rose from his chair, crossed to a window, and drew one of his
Remingtons as he went. He eased back the flap of hide which passed
for a curtain. It parted enough for him to see five Blackfoot
warriors ease their ponies to a stop outside the cabin. All of them,
their horses included, were painted for war.

The
cabin door opened and Laramie turned to see Lonesome disappear out it
and onto the porch. Then he realised that the old man was unarmed. He
thumbed back the hammer of his gun and waited.

“What's
happening?” asked Sally, a slight quiver in her voice after
having seen the gunfighter cock his weapon.

He
held up his hand to quiet her.

With
the use of words and hand gestures, the Indians and the old Trapper
communicated for five minutes. At one stage of the conversation, one
of the Braves pointed to the cabin. With a furious head shake by
Lonesome, the Indians seemed convinced of what the mountain man told
them.

With
the confrontation over, the warriors backed their paint daubed ponies
away from where Lonesome stood and rode off. The old man watched them
go before he turned and went back inside.

Once
he was back indoors, Laramie eased the hammer down on his gun and
holstered it.

“What
did they want?” asked Laramie curiously.

“It
seems,” Lonesome started before he turned his angry gaze upon
Slate, “that someone killed their chief's brother. And his
brother's wife.”

Laramie's
gaze shifted to Slate, “What else did they say?”

“They
said there were six of them that done it. Killed the warrior and done
bad things to the woman. Their names were Lame Bear and Lost Dove.
The braves are on their way to join up with Black Elk,”
Lonesome paused, “Now considering the circumstances that bring
you here, I got to wonder if this feller here is involved somehow.”

Laramie
nodded, “I'm thinkin' the same thing. How about it Slate? Were
you involved?”

Slate's
eyes grew wide, “No, not me! I didn't do anythin' Laramie, I
swear!”

“But
you were there,” it was a statement, not a question.

Slate's
shoulders fell and he looked at the floor like a child being lectured
for doing something wrong.

“Yeah,
I was there,” he conceded before he lifted his gaze to look the
gunfighter in the eye, “but I didn't do anythin' wrong”

Laramie
shook his head sorrowfully, “Hell Slate, just bein' there was
wrong.”

The
outlaw nodded silently.

“So,
what happened?”

Slate
heaved a sigh, a look of pain crossed his face as he began to relate
the events, “We came upon them when we was headin' to Four
Trails. They seemed friendly enough, a little wary, but we didn't
give 'em any cause to be scared of us. I thought we was goin' to ride
right on past 'em, but when we was level with 'em, Blackie just
pulled his gun and shot the Indian Brave point blank.”

Slate
paused, his expression now crestfallen, “Then there was the
woman. Hell I ain't never seen anythin' like that before, what they
did to her. I close my eyes and I can still see it.”

“Who
did it?” asked Laramie.

“It
was Blackie and the kid, Benny,” the outlaw answered, “I
tried to stop 'em Laramie, honest I did, but Blackie told Cato to
hold a gun on me until they were finished.”

Lonesome
snatched up his Hawken, “I oughta put a lead ball in you right
now, you blasted...”

Sally
gasped as Slate leaped back when the old man swung the Hawken around
and pulled back the hammer.

“Hold
it Lonesome!” Laramie cried.

The
mountain man had moved so quickly that it surprised them all, and now
he had the rifle pointed at Slate's head with his finger curled on
the trigger, “Why in hell should I?”

“Well,
the way I see it, he has two choices.”

“What
choices?” Lonesome's aim never wavered.

“We
can cut him loose right now and he can take his chances with the
Blackfeet,” Laramie explained, “or he can come back to
Mountain Pass, talk to the law there and take what they give him.”

“Not
much of a damn choice,” Slate sneered.

“Damn
it boy, let me shoot the varmint,” Lonesome snarled.

The
outlaw held both hands out in front, “No, wait! Wait! I'll go
back. I'll talk to the law, just don't let that crazy old coot kill
me.”

Laramie
nodded, “Okay then, go and get the horses ready to leave. We
should have been gone ages ago.”

“And
don't get no idea's about runnin' either sonny. I may be old but I
can still shoot straight.”

Slate
said nothing as he walked out the door.

“You
should've let me shoot him boy,” Lonesome opined.

“Do
you think he will go through with it?” Sally questioned.

“I
guess we'll find out.”

A
while later the horses were saddled and all three were ready to
depart, “Are you sure you don't want to come with us? You know
they'll be comin' this way.”

Lonesome
gave a raspy chuckle, “Son, I've fought Indians and faced down
grizz. You don't think a bunch of pesky old outlaws is goin' to scare
me any do ya? Besides, this is my home and this is where I plan on
dyin'.”

Laramie
held out his hand and Lonesome took it in his firm, rough grasp,
“I'll see you when the snow flies.”

“You
damn well better,” the old man said gruffly.

“When
they come, tell them which way we went. Don't get mixed up in it as
it's not your fight.”

“Don't
you worry about me.”

They
turned their horses and rode away, and left the old trapper where he
stood and watched them as they went.

“Do
you think he will be alright?” Sally asked, a hint of sadness
in her voice.

“I
hope so Sally, I sure hope so.”

*

There
were ten of them altogether but only nine were lined up in front of
Lonesome Lane. The other, a Crow Indian walked a wide path, and
looked for sign. Since Laramie and the others had gone, the old
mountain man had sat and waited for the pursuers to come. Now he
faced them with the Hawken pointed in their direction, its hammer on
full cock.