Branded

by Eric Red

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Get some shut-eye.”

  He heard his two comrades return to their tents, then it was quiet again and dark, but even though it was not as quiet and dark as his terrible dream, the peace and gloom brought him no comfort as they usually did. That safe space had been invaded.

  Noose didn’t sleep the rest of the night, just lay with his eyes wide open, watching the dark top of the lean-to, waiting for it to brighten, yearning for sunrise.

  When it came the following morning, the three travelers moved out before the sky was fully light. They made a quick breakfast at the campfire and were saddled up and back on the trail. Joe Noose was glad to be on the move after his horrific nightmare. The three cups of coffee did little to relieve the exhaustion that clung to him after his bad night’s sleep.

  CHAPTER 13

  By early afternoon, it was a relief for the three travelers when they found a local road heading north where an occasional if regular traffic of horses and wagons had cleared ruts in the snow, making it an easy trek for the horses.

  Noose rode beside Bess.

  “I never seen you rattled before, Joe.”

  “I ain’t rattled.”

  “If that’s what you being rattled ain’t, Joe, I don’t want to see you being what rattled is.”

  “I just want to catch up with this man.”

  “Because it’s personal.”

  “Hell yes, it’s personal.”

  “Don’t let it get too personal. Like my daddy always told me, gunplay ain’t personal, it’s business. The business is shoot to kill, otherwise be shot and killed. You can’t get hot in a gunfight. Can’t let your emotions affect your reflexes. You need to be cold. Draw down and drop him.”

  “I know. But thanks for reminding me.” Noose nodded and fell back to ride alongside Emmett.

  “We all need reminding sometimes. That’s what friends are for, Joe,” she called back.

  Bess was riding in the lead, Noose riding side by side with Emmett when the bounty hunter started up a conversation.

  “So how long you been a marshal, Ford?”

  “Joined the Utah U.S. Marshals Service five years ago next July.”

  “You from Utah?”

  “From a lot of places. Idaho mostly.”

  “Been trying to place your accent. I figured you was from Wyoming.”

  Emmett looked at Noose a beat. “Does Wyoming even have an accent?”

  “To my ear.”

  “I spent time here, but not as much as other places.”

  “Decided on a career in law enforcement, huh?”

  “It fit me.”

  “What made you join the U.S. Marshals Service instead of, say, become a sheriff?”

  He shrugged. “Why did Bess?”

  Noose laughed loudly. “The town made her!”

  “I heard that.” Bess swung her head around with a tart grin and winked.

  Emmett chuckled.

  “Why did you?” Noose asked again.

  The marshal shook his head. “I come from a long line of lawmen, Joe. Granddad was a sheriff. Pecos County, Texas. My dad was a sheriff out in Grange, Idaho, where I did a lot of my growing up. Wasn’t much of a doubt I’d become a lawman. But I couldn’t see myself stuck in one place as a lawdog, Wanted a job that would take me around this big country. The U.S. Marshals offered that. So soon as I was eighteen I enlisted in the calvary, did my four years at Fort Smith up in Boise. Saw some Indian action. Made sergeant. After I got discharged, I put my papers in for the Marshals. My lieutenant’s brother was a U.S. Marshal and he put in a good word for me. Been posted in Pocatello ever since, that is, until this.”

  “Got any brothers or sisters?”

  “Three sisters. I’m the youngest. All three are married. One moved to Texas. The other two live in Idaho near where we all grew up.

  “You married?”

  “No sir. Not yet. But I mean to one day, have kids, raise a family, after I see how all this falls out.”

  “Why The Brander?”

  Emmett threw Joe a confused glance. “What do you mean, why?”

  “You’ve been hunting The Brander on your own for two years now, I reckon, right?”

  “Right.”

  The bounty hunter’s steady gaze considered his saddle mate. “It’s a mission for you, I can see that. The Brander is a very bad and dangerous individual who needs to be stopped, that’s a fact, and I respect your commitment. What got you onto his trail? There’s a lot of badmen in the West. What I’m asking is, what gave you a hard-on for this one?”

  “He killed a damn dog.”

  Noose looked at Emmett, who sighed and explained. “The son of a bitch branded that dog, burned him to death. The dog didn’t do nothing. March of 1885, me and two fellow marshals came on what we figure was The Brander’s first branding kill. Killed the entire family out in Provo, husband, wife, little daughter, and son, branded all of ’em. But it was the dog lying there with the brand in his side. I don’t know, Joe. It put a fire in my belly. Right then I knew I was gonna get that mean murderous son of a bitch if it was the last thing I did. I asked for the assignment and headquarters in Cody authorized it and gave me my orders. So I went after him.”

  “That led you to Bess. Which led you to me. Which led us here.”

  “More or less.”

  Emmett saw Noose watching him with that unsettling perspicacious pale gaze that drilled through his head, probing his character and taking the measure of him; the man seemed to see right through him. Noose’s gaze unnerved everyone. “You ask a lot of questions, Noose.”

  The bounty hunter just grunted. “I like to know who I’m riding with.”

  “Now you do,” said the marshal.

  Noose didn’t reply.

  * * *

  They were on the road to Wind River, fifteen miles ahead, one of the larger towns for a hundred miles in any direction. Once there, the manhunters’ plan was to talk to the sheriff and inquire if he had any information on The Brander’s whereabouts. They also intended to check with the local blacksmith and see if a man missing three fingers on his right hand had brought in a broken Q branding iron for repair in the last few days. The damaged brand was a new lead. Knowing the fiend would need to have his signature murder implement repaired directly, the trio’s logical intention was to check area blacksmiths to pick up their quarry’s trail again. Bootmakers no longer needed to be interviewed, because Noose had seen The Brander’s boots up close and personal, and both had heels. After a month on the trail, it was time to reprovision and pick up some ammo in Wind River as well. Bess was desirous of a bath, so they thought they would all stay the night at the best local hotel and enjoy a good hot meal before heading out again the next morning. The prospects of a little relaxation raised the spirits of all three.

  As they rode on down the road, the three manhunters passed occasional travelers heading in the other direction. A freighter wagon. Two ranchers on horseback. Two cowboys riding together. As the men approached up the road, one of the two individuals pulled his hat down, but it seemed a casual gesture, so Noose, Bess, and Emmett barely glanced at the two riders as they passed before turning a bend in the road out of sight.

  The two cowboys were a hard-bitten man in his fifties named Mason Cole with bitter, shifty eyes and his older laid-back saddle mate, Carl Stokes. Cole had become clenched with violence and Stokes gave him the side-eye.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “What is it, Cole?”

  “I know that man we just passed.”

  “Which one?”

  “That big bastard just rode by is the bounty hunter son of a bitch who caught me and took me in and cost me ten years in the territorial prison in Laramie. His name is Joe Noose.”

  “Joe Noose? That was him?”

  “That was him.”

  “It’s been ten years, you can’t be sure.”

  “Biggest man I ever met. Face I’ll never forget. That was him, all rig
ht.”

  Stokes whistled. “I know Noose by name. He has a fearsome reputation.”

  “Back in ’63 had me a thousand-dollar dead-or-alive bounty on my head for that stagecoach business and Noose was the son of a bitch who collected it. Jumped me outside of Cheyenne and got the drop on me. He don’t shoot people he figures he don’t have to, but he tied me up on my saddle and rode me three hundred miles to Laramie. On my belly slung over a saddle three hundred miles over that rough ground was like getting punched in the stomach every five minutes the whole way. I ain’t shit right since. Judge gave me ten years. The Laramie territorial prison was hell. Hell, I say. All on account of that man we just rode past.”

  “He didn’t recognize you?”

  “Nope, had my hat down after I saw him, so he did not see my face.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  They rode on another mile.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Let it go, Cole. You’re out now.”

  “Ten years I was in. Ten years that man cost me.”

  “Ain’t nothing you can do about it.”

  “Hell, there ain’t.”

  “Okay, my big-talking friend, just what do you intend to do?”

  “Get me some payback is what I intend to do. I’m gonna put a bullet in Joe Noose’s damn heart.”

  “You’re just talking.”

  “Am I?”

  “Leave it, Cole. They say nobody gets the drop on Noose. Supposed to be, he’s too damn fast.”

  Cole gave an ugly laugh. “You think I’m stupid going toe to toe with a stud like that? Hell no, Stokes. I’m gonna shoot him in the back.”

  “He’ll see you coming.”

  “Noose ain’t as good as they say he is. Only reason he got the drop on me ten years ago was my stomach complaint had me distracted. Lucky is what he was. Today, his luck runs out.”

  “You’re seriously going to go heels with that man?”

  “Turn these horses around. I’m gonna kill him in town.”

  “I want no part of this, Cole. You’re a friend and all, but this score is yours to settle, you’re on your own. I’ll be at Steamboat Kate’s.”

  “I’ll meet you there in a few hours. Tell that new redhead to keep it hot for me.”

  The two cowboys faced each other on their horses. Stokes looked sadly at Cole. “Don’t do this.”

  “I had a dead-or-alive bounty on my head. That bounty hunter should have put me down. Money was the same. Wouldn’t have had to deal with me now. Yessir, Joe Noose made one mistake: taking me in alive instead of dead.”

  “Adios.”

  The two riders rode in opposite directions.

  CHAPTER 14

  The three manhunters rode into the small town of Wind River, Wyoming (“pop. 354”). They came to it right on the main road. A settlement of one- and two-story buildings and stores was on a main street that turned off the road that they presently traveled on. It was more people than they had seen since they left Victor weeks ago, and the crush of humanity was welcome.

  Noose, Bess, and Emmett trotted down the central street past the stable and feed store, soon passing a saloon, hotel and brothel, and several corrals. Wind River was an outpost that passed for civilization in these remote parts. The lady marshal saw the town was not as developed as Jackson, Wyoming, but on its way; in ten years, it might become a proper little city. Many of the structures were unpainted and weather roughened; little alleyways led off the thoroughfare. Along what passed for a boardwalk, dozens of townspeople bundled against the frigid weather and went about their business; they were taking care not to put a foot wrong in the broken sections of the planking or places where it simply hadn’t been added. Trappers and cowpokes rode back and forth up and down the street on horses or in wagons, selling their wares or buying supplies. The air was filled with the sounds of horse hooves and the clatter and clink of carriages.

  “You figuring on talking to the sheriff first, Bess?” Noose looked over at his friend the lady marshal.

  “Logical first stop. We should while we’re here.”

  Halfway down the street, they rode up to the single-story unpainted wooden building with a porch and next to a window with iron bars, a hand-painted sign that read WIND RIVER SHERIFF’S OFFICE on the side of the door. The trio of manhunters dismounted, tethered their horses to the fence, and went inside.

  One look around and Noose made up his mind that all sheriff ’s offices look the same. Next to a small cell and woodstove, across from the gun rack and opposing deputy’s desk, was the sheriff ’s desk, and behind it sat the man himself. He was affable and rough-hewn, an older gentleman, who had farmer’s hands and outdoorsman’s untamed beard, so Joe guessed this was a part-time job for him. Then again, not much crime probably happened in these parts. The man wore a drover’s coat over a checkerboard shirt stained with mud, some of which tarnished the badge on his chest. Despite his rural aspect, the lawman seemed friendly enough when he greeted the three travelers who just walked in. “Howdy, I’m Sheriff Winston Potter. What can I do for you folks?”

  Bess stepped forward and did the talking. “Sheriff, I’m Marshal Bess Sugarland out of Jackson and this is Marshal Emmett Ford from Pocatello. Joe Noose here is our tracker. We’re on the trail of a murderer. A vicious killer who brands his victims.”

  “With a branding iron?” The lawman looked mortified and Noose already knew he would be no help.

  “Correct. I’d like to ask you if there have been any killings in your jurisdiction that match that description?”

  “Gee. Gosh. I’d sure have remembered. No, I don’t—let me think.”

  The big bounty hunter stifled a yawn as he watched the slow-witted sheriff tug on his scraggly beard, trying to think, and knew his time was better spent elsewhere. “Bess, while you and the sheriff are conducting your business, I’m going to talk to the blacksmith we passed, then check out the stables to see if they remember seeing our boy.”

  “I’ll find you in a few minutes, Joe.”

  And the bounty hunter was out the door.

  * * *

  Mason Cole was on foot. His present position was halfway down the block from the sheriff ’s office. The vengeful ex-con had tailed the bounty hunter and two marshals over some distance until they rode into town. Giving them five minutes’ lead, he followed on his own horse then hitched it near the town sign near the main road where he had first recognized Joe Noose.

  Then Mason Cole waited.

  He’d waited twenty years, figured he could wait another few minutes. For the first time since the badman remembered, he enjoyed the wait because the weight of two heavy Colt Navy revolvers, fully loaded, cleaned and oiled, hung in his side holsters and the man he had dreamed all these years of settling up with was nearly in his crosshairs.

  —Joe Noose, you got a big surprise coming when you get shot in the back.

  A few minutes earlier as Cole watched the trio dismount at the sheriff ’s office and go inside, he stood by the feed store in the shade of the porch overhang, letting his mind go on a tear.

  —Noose, you gonna look down and see that big hole in your chest is a bullet exit wound and realize all that blood everywhere is yours but you won’t know what hit you. Not at first.

  As his hands tickled the hafts of his holstered pistols, leaving a trail of sweat from his bloodthirsty glee, Cole hung back and waited for his moment when Noose was alone. Then he saw the unmistakable figure of the giant cowboy exit the sheriff ’s office and walk up the block.

  Mason Cole followed him.

  —When you fall to your knees, Noose, you’ll look up and see the man who shot you in the back walk up to you and look you in the eye and say, Remember me, and you’ll be looking up the black barrel of my Colt Navy knowing it’s me who killed you when I shoot you between the eyes and blow your Goddamn brains out!

  His eyes locked on his big target, Cole shadowed Noose as he walked into the blacksmith’s
stall and had some words with the man. The ex-con closed in step by step, blending in with the passing townspeople, looking like nobody in particular and got himself into killing range of the bounty hunter, who didn’t see him because he was preoccupied with some important business that wouldn’t seem so important a few minutes from now.

  Mason Cole wiped runny perspiration from his face with his yellow kerchief and licked his lips, wondering why his face was so wet yet his mouth was dry.

  —Get ready!

  * * *

  The blacksmith put down his sledgehammer and walked up to Joe Noose, who stood by the counter of the stall. “Help you, mister?”

  “I’d like to know if a man brought in a broken cattle brand for repair. The brand was shaped like a Q. The customer had three fingers missing on his right hand.”

  “How is that any business of yours?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “And I just asked you one.”

  “My name’s Joe Noose. I’m a bounty hunter. I’m working for two U.S. Marshals and we’re hunting a killer who uses that brand.”

  Noose looked at the rough-hewn bearded tradesman, covered with sweat from the burning coal brazier by the anvil. He towered over the smaller man, but the blacksmith clenched a sledgehammer in his scarred fist and showed no fear holding the bounty hunter’s gaze. Along the racks on the frame of the stall hung forged chains, yokes, hooks, and cattle brands, but none Noose saw had a Q on them.

  “How do you know the brand was broke?”

  “I broke it.”

  “That ain’t my problem.”

  “What is your problem?”

  “I don’t like people asking about my business or my customers.”

  “Problem here, Joe?”

  Noose turned to see Marshal Bess had walked up beside him on the left. Marshal Ford sidled up to the counter on his right. The blacksmith looked at the woman lawman who looked back hard. “I’m U.S. Marshal Bess Sugarland and this man works for me. He asked you a question about whether someone paid you to fix a broken Q brand and now I’m askin’ and I require you to answer or me and Marshal Ford here will drag your ass over to Sheriff Potter and lock you up because this is an active murder investigation and you ain’t cooperating. Do we understand each other, friend?”