by Eric Red
“A little running off at the mouth might do you good, Joe Noose.”
Copper snorted, blowing his lips out, wagging his head and nodding his snout as he chewed his bridle; all three of them laughed because even though the beautiful gold horse was probably just clowning, damned if didn’t seem like it agreed with Bess that Noose should share about himself more.
“Whoa.”
Noose reined Copper to a sudden stop. Bess and Emmett pulled their horses to a halt behind his. The three were at the edge of a shallow ridge, a long grade leading down into a narrow valley bordered on the other side by a rise leading to a higher ridge, the landscape blanketed with unbroken snow. His eyes squinted, the bounty hunter was looking far across the valley.
At the top of the ridge was a man on a horse.
The lone figure sat tall and skeletal in the saddle, his long white hair visible even from this distance. He was just a dark stick figure in all the white turbulence of the growing snowstorm, hard to make out but instantly recognizable all the same. His presence seemed to fill the valley.
“That’s him,” muttered Noose. Snatching his field glasses from his saddlebags, he put them to his eye.
“How can you be sure?” asked Bess, dubious this could be the man they were after.
Focusing the lenses with his gloved fingers, Noose found the solitary figure in the oval optics, which magnified him to head-and-shoulders proportions. The man was aged, wearing a ragged yellowed duster that enveloped his lanky, bony frame like a shroud. It was an old man from his aspect, his windblown long white hair obscuring his precise features, but his eyes shone bright with mania, staring blankly off in profile—it was unclear if this man saw them. Still, the bounty hunter couldn’t be 100 percent sure it was The Brander. Noose panned the binoculars until the old man’s saddle came into his field of view, and what he saw strapped to the saddlebags confirmed his suspicion:
The black metal rod of the Q branding iron.
“That’s The Brander, all right.” He passed off the field glasses to Bess. She peered through them across to the opposite ridge. “Look at the saddle. The branding iron is plain to see.”
“Hot damn, I think you’re right. Joe, you made him.”
“Gimme those.” Confounded, Emmett grabbed the binoculars and had himself a look. His voice was hoarse with emotion when he spoke. “Son of a bitch. We found him.”
“If we are all three agreed we have identified our target”—Noose swung his arm around to snatch his Sharps long rifle from the saddle scabbard, socking it to his shoulder—“let’s take the son of a bitch out.”
“Don’t shoot him!” snapped Emmett.
“Why the hell not?” growled Noose, side-eyeing the marshal from the gunsight of the massive rifle.
“He’s too far. You’ll miss.”
“I never miss. Back off, you’re throwing my aim breathing down my neck.”
“He’s gotta be four hundred yards away. In this wind, at that range, it’s an impossible shot given these conditions. No matter how good a marksman you are, friend, it’s even money you’ll miss. Then The Brander will know we’re onto him. I don’t think he sees us, Joe. Let’s use that to our advantage. I say sneak down this hill on our horses and come up behind him. Use the element of surprise while we have it.”
Joe Noose kept the rifle to his shoulder, judging his aim as he calculated for windage, elevation, and bullet drop, his finger itchy on the trigger. Bess’s hand touched his long barrel and pushed it down carefully but firmly. “Joe, Emmett’s right. Let’s get closer. Then decide whether to shoot or chase him down. We’re too far.”
With a grunt, the big bounty hunter spun the heavy long rifle around his hand like a toy, sliding it into his saddle scabbard in one smooth move. “Follow me,” he said, spurring Copper over the edge of the ridge, down into the valley. Bess and Emmett’s horses fell in behind him.
Descending the downgrade was long and easy, but the snow was heavy and deep. Copper’s powerful legs pushed through powdered drifts up to its chest, dredging a path that made the two lesser horses behind it easier to plow through. Noose patted the neck of his golden horse appreciatively, hearing its hard breathing of exertion and seeing the snorted exhalations condensing in the frosty air; the tough, loyal horse of his would ride for its master until its heart burst.
For his part, throughout the ride, the bounty hunter kept his eyes fastened to the lone figure of The Brander astride his dun stallion on the high ridge ahead. He must not have seen the three approaching riders, for he had not changed position; either that or he was waiting for them. Noose had a bad notion that Emmett was right about the distance being too far to shoot and the necessity of getting closer to get a clean shot—The Brander may have realized the same thing but rather than going to them, he was waiting for them to come to him—once they were in his killing range, he’d whip out his rifle and pick them off like fish in a barrel in the narrow open valley. Here, the deep snow made quick escape impossible and anywhere they dug in they’d be exposed to his fire from the position he presently occupied. He had the high ground.
Three hundred yards to reach The Brander . . .
Another hundred yards, and they’d all be in shooting range of each other . . .
Joe Noose couldn’t take the chance.
Hauling on his reins, he swung Copper in a sudden sharp turn and urged his stallion fast forward, hard right. Swinging a look over his shoulder, he saw Bess and Emmett, alert to Noose’s surprise maneuver, quickly turn their horses to follow him into the trees. Hooves pounded the snow, kicking up clouds of powder that obscured the three figures. It took only a minute’s hard ride for the bounty hunter and the marshals to reach the protection of the tree line, a hundred yards back from where anybody could take an accurate shot at them.
If the marshals objected to the improvised change in tactics, neither voiced it.
Once the horses were safely inside the cover of the trees, Joe Noose steered the reins and rode Copper through the trunks of the large conifers in the direction of The Brander. It was a tactic—the dense forestation obscured their approach. Noose looked back at Bess and Emmett following him in single file formation—both marshals had their pistols out. With his glove, the bounty hunter gave them terse hand signals . . .
—Bess, advance on my right.
—Emmett, advance on my left.
—I’ll ride down the middle.
The strategy was to execute a flanking maneuver and come at their quarry from three sides. While none of the trio could see the terrain where The Brander last stood, he would not be able to retreat in their direction without heading straight into their guns. For the second time in ten minutes, Noose drew his rifle; this time he pulled out his trusty Winchester repeater that he preferred for close work. The gun was already cocked and loaded.
Copper kept an even, careful trot, somehow knowing to walk as silently as an Indian.
The forest was dark even though it was daytime; the snow-covered canopy of trees let in less sunlight than usual and it was as cold as an icebox.
The bounty hunter saw the trees part ahead, branches heavy with snow opening up on a view of more frost-covered trees. As he rode his horse through the forest, he still could not see The Brander. If the fiend hadn’t fled or otherwise repositioned, he should be fifty yards dead ahead.
Noose swung his gaze to one side then the other, eyes on his comrades.
To his right, Marshal Bess edged her horse deliberately through the trees fifty yards out, riding determinedly forward with one hand on the reins, one hand holding her Colt Peacemaker barrel up.
To his left, Marshal Ford had moved over thirty feet, his Remington 1875 pistol held by his waist, throwing a glance to Noose now and then, watching him as carefully even as he watched for their approaching prey.
The sound of their horses’ quiet hooves and their own breathing were the only sounds that reached their ears in the eerie winter stillness.
The three manhunters advanced th
rough the forest in a loose phalanx. Ahead, more trees.
Now and then, Noose had to duck or get hit by a snow-encrusted branch, dangling icicles, or frozen pine needles. When avoiding these was not possible, he got a cold slap in the head but his grimly set face, covered with snow and sap, stayed pointed straight and did not flinch.
His horse put one hoof after the other.
Sunlight twinkled through the branches ahead.
They neared the ridge where they had seen The Brander, just on the other side of the trees, forty feet away.
Putting his gloved hand up, Noose quietly tugged the reins to halt Copper. Looking left and right, he saw Bess and Emmett stop their horses quietly. Nodding to them, he pointed to the ground. The three dismounted with maximum stealth, boots reaching the snowy forest floor without a stirrup rattle, saddle creak, or spur jingle. They were good.
With Joe Noose leading the way with his Winchester jammed in his shoulder, sighting down the barrel, the three advanced in a triangular formation.
The bounty hunter raised his hand showing one finger . . .
Two fingers . . .
Three fingers . . .
On the three count, the trio burst through the branches from three directions, ready to shoot at the slightest provocation.
The ridge was empty.
The Brander was gone.
The first heavy-caliber round exploded a fist-sized hole in the trunk of the tree beside Noose’s head before any of them heard the shot, showering wood shrapnel.
All three dived face-first in the snow, flattening on the ground. By now the rifle shot—a Henry, judging by the volume—echoed directionlessly around the ravine in a fading boom.
Instantly, Noose fired blindly over the edge of the ridge from the ground, wasting a bullet drawing return fire to pinpoint their quarry’s position.
Sure enough, another rifle report came from below, from the north, to their right.
Noose, Emmett, and Bess exchanged tactical glances. They knew where he was. Carefully, keeping their heads down so as not to get them shot off, they crawled on their stomachs through the snow with their weapons to the edge of ridge to sneak a look. Muffled thumps. They heard the distant galloping hooves on the snow below before they were able to look over the ridge and see the fleeing distant figure of the old man, duster flapping, galloping swiftly across the vast snowy valley—nothing but flat white space as far as the eye could see in either direction . . . and on it he was a shrinking speck leaving a trail of hoofprints and clouds of kicked-up snow in his wake.
From here, the three could see the northern side of the ridge they couldn’t before—it was a steep but smooth downgrade leveling off at the valley floor—the escape route The Brander just took.
“Get the damn horses!” roared Noose.
“Let’s get after him!” yelled Bess.
“Don’t let him get away!” shouted Emmett.
In unison, the trio jumped up, bolted back to their horses, and quickly remounted them. They took off in a hard gallop through the trees out onto the ridge and down the grade. Noose was in the lead, Bess behind him, and Emmett brought up the rear. As the ground dropped away, the horses took the snowdrifts in long powerful strides and the manhunters hugged their saddles. In moments, they were down in the valley in hot pursuit of their escaping quarry.
Riding point, Noose squinted into the blowing snow to spot the tracks of The Brander, his horse’s hoofprints the only demarcations on the unbroken snow and easy to follow. Giving Copper some spur, the bounty hunter drove his powerful golden steed even faster. He heard Bess’s and Emmett’s galloping hooves right behind.
Far in the distance, dead ahead, the tiny speck of the fiend pulled away from them. Twin quick minuscule flashes, like sun reflecting on metal. Two bullets buzzed past the bounty hunter’s head, startlingly close considering the distance they were shot from. Lucky shots perhaps, but Noose now suspected the maniac could really shoot.
Nothing to do but return the favor . . .
Cocking his Winchester, levering it by spinning the entire rifle around his hand, Noose straight-arm fired it in front of him in one glove. Then fired it again. And again. Glittering smoking brass casings ejected from the breech of the gun as he blasted it over and over at his slippery distant target. Behind him over the sound of Copper’s galloping hooves he could hear Emmett’s hollers of protest but Noose didn’t care—he had plenty of bullets banked so he kept firing them and kept shooting. Maybe he’d get a lucky shot, too.
Across the vast snowy tundra, the three figures of the manhunters rode. Very far ahead, the single lone figure they chased rode faster than they did. The sun gleamed off the blinding white snow of the valley.
CHAPTER 11
By the time Noose arrived at the edge of the woods where The Brander had escaped by riding up into the hills, there was no sight of the fiend, but the hoofprints of his horse were plain enough. The bounty hunter spurred Copper and the horse barely slowed its speed as it took the hill in great galloping strides, steered by the big man on his back tugging the reins right and left as he followed the trail of hooves with his keen eyes.
Snow exploded in big bursts as Copper relentlessly plowed through drifts ranging in height from its knees to its chest.
Swinging a glance over his shoulder, Noose saw Bess and Emmett on their horses barrel through the tree line at his rear, fifty yards behind.
Walls of fifty-foot conifers draped with frost and icicles came at him. Using his muscular thighs in the saddle, Noose steered his horse through the obstacle course of sudden dense frozen forestation. It was getting harder to discern The Brander’s tracks between the trunks with all the roots and foliage on the ground, so the bounty hunter slowed his horse to a propulsive canter, keeping his own head moving in a steady left-to-right scan of his surroundings, eyes constantly on the move to check if his quarry had broken off to the side—what he would do in that position.
All he saw was woods . . .
Snow and trees . . .
Glimpses of robin’s-egg-blue sky above the forest canopy . . .
Sunlight twinkling through frosted branches . . .
A gleam of sunlight on metal.
The world exploded in gunfire, Noose already levering and firing his Winchester as the first bullets came. Spurring his horse, he dived from the saddle, hitting the snow in a somersault, rolling up to one knee, quick-firing his Winchester repeater at the general area where he saw the glint of gunmetal . . . when he saw the muzzle flashes, he sharpened his aim, but The Brander had taken cover.
Leaping off their horses, Bess and Emmett moved with crack precision efficiently tying off their horses on a branch and ducking behind two opposite trees.
Bam! Bam! More shots came at them from deep in the forest.
“Don’t kill him!” Emmett yelled to Noose, who was getting tired of hearing it.
“Killin’s the bullet’s business, Emmett!” the bounty hunter hollered back, and returned fire.
Bess and Emmett both aimed their pistols around the trees they’d hidden behind and fired at their unseen nemesis.
That was when Noose noticed The Brander’s shots were going wide, and the bounty hunter knew damn well the fiend could shoot better than that.
Noose threw an alarmed glance at Copper, standing out in the open directly in the line of fire. His gold stallion watched him fearlessly, but he saw in the animal’s gaze awareness of the danger it was in this close to the gunfight.
Two bullets exploded near Copper’s hooves, but the brave horse with nerves of steel hardly flinched.
The Brander was trying to shoot the horses!
If that dirty miserable son of a bitch shot the horses, not only would Joe lose his best friend in the world, he, Bess, and Emmett would be stranded on foot fifty miles from nowhere out in the open wilderness and would probably die of exposure.
“Get the horses out of here!” Noose roared.
Bess and Emmett shot him alarmed glances a hundred feet away ta
king cover behind trees getting struck by The Brander’s bullets. They looked to their horses and then back at Noose, who knew there wasn’t time for them to figure it out.
“Cover me!” the big cowboy yelled, breaking cover like an artillery shell fired from a mortar, running as fast as his feet would carry him for his golden stallion. He needed to get to its side in a big hurry.
Instantly getting the picture, like a well-oiled machine, Bess and Emmett leaned around the tree trunks and blasted away in the fiend’s direction with their pistols, laying down heavy covering fire. Gun blasts exploded in the clearing in staccato strings of earsplitting reports. Unless he was suicidal The Brander would have no choice but to duck for cover with no chance to return fire while the marshals’ relentless fusillades of rounds came at him, if he didn’t want to get his head shot off.
Snatching Copper’s reins in one hands, his smart horse already on the move, Noose scrambled out through the open clearing in a dead run for Bess’s Appaloosa and Emmett’s pony, both horses rearing and pawing the air in panic as the bullets flew around them and exploded on the ground. Bess and Emmett continued to pound The Brander’s position with lead. Grabbing the reins of his friends’ horses in his free hand, Noose hurriedly untied them and went rushing off into the dense forest, pulling three horses in tow. Behind him, the onslaught of the marshals’ covering fire was a nonstop battery of rounds booming through the trees.
When Joe Noose had the horses a safe enough distance away behind the protective cover of three tightly packed thick-girthed pines, he began to tie the horses off so he could get back into the fray. He noticed the gunshots had stopped and became worried his friends had been hit. But before he could draw and reload, he heard hurried footsteps and whirled to see Bess and Emmett rush out of the woods up to him.
“He stopped shooting,” Bess gasped. “I don’t know if we got him or not. I don’t think so. Emmett thinks he saw him riding the hell out of there like his ass was on fire.”
“That right, Emmett?”
“I saw a horse. It was pretty fast. I say we mount up and get on after him, check for his body back at the clearing, follow his tracks if we don’t find it.”
