Noose Jumpers
Vol. 1
A Mythological Western
By: Trevor H. Cooley
Trevor H. Cooley
Copyright 2016 by Trevor H. Cooley
Mythological Edition
Super Cool Cover art by Justin Cooley
Disclaimer: Though set in history, this is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons or locations is coincidental. *exaggerated wink followed by a playful, but slightly painful, pair of nudges to the ribs*
Works by Trevor H. Cooley
Noose Jumpers:
Book One: A Mythological Western
Book Two: The Hangin’ Tree (Upcoming)
The Bowl of Souls Series:
The Moonrat Saga
Book One: EYE of the MOONRAT
Book 1.5: HILT’S PRIDE
Book Two: MESSENGER of the DARK PROPHET
Book Three: HUNT of the BANDHAM
Book Four: THE WAR of STARDEON
Book Five: MOTHER of the MOONRAT
The Jharro Grove Saga
Book One: TARAH WOODBLADE
Book Two: PROTECTOR of the GROVE
Book Three: THE OGRE APPRENTICE
Book Four: THE TROLL KING
Book Five: (Upcoming Fall 2016)
Book Six: (Upcoming 2017)
Dedication
To my youngest daughter Brie, who is bright, sparkling, happy, charming, snarky, exuberant, silly, and above all a lover of fun. I love you dearly. Thank you for your patience with the long time I took writing this book. Now we can watch shows together.
Table of Contents
1: Sometimes an Observer Must Vent
2: The Death of Bobby Estrella
3: A Glassful of Worms
4: Half an Outlaw
5: Right in Front of His Wanted Poster
6: A Red Star Palaver
7: El Banco de Puerta de la Muerte
8: They Say He Can’t be Hit by Bullets
9: False Rumors and the Truthfulness of Birds
10: A Brief Interjection
11: Sandy Tucker was Very Nearly a Bastard
12: The Downsides of Power
13: Coyote and Pup
14: Under a Three Quarter Moon
15: The Haunting of Luke Bassett
16: Sometimes Things Just Aren’t Right
17: The Difference Between Fate and Destiny
18: Preparations and Unexpected Repercussions
19: The Shootout at Luna Gorda
20: A Lifelong Confluence of Fickle Talents.
21: Doing Business in a Dead Man’s Suit
22: The LeGrande Coach Game
23: Sometimes Fate Wants a Second Helping
24: Here Comes the Law
25: Beans, Bears, and Subterfuge
26: A Lot of Explaining to Do
26: Biblical
28: One Last Note
Part One:
Bobby Estrella and the Red Star Gang
1: Sometimes an Observer Must Vent
Greetings, dear readers. I am aware that the title of this chapter must seem confusing. For the narrator of a tale to address the reader directly is a bit of an oddity and I am a trifle embarrassed by it myself. However, I feel it necessary to introduce myself; set the stage, as it were.
You see, I am an Observer; a storyteller with centuries of experience. The tale I am about to tell you did not come second, third, or hundredth hand. I watched as these events unfolded.
Now I do not expect you to believe this. I am aware that your current generation discounts the existence of near-immortal beings such as myself. Nevertheless, I deem it important to tell you this about me before you begin because, as you may have heard, we Observers are unable to alter the truth. Keep that in mind as you process the contents of this book.
The following is a tale about a group of men that rose to prominence during the Noose Jumper era of the Wild West. Sadly, most of you are wondering who the Noose Jumpers were. After all, few modern histories mention them at all and those that do relegate the Noose Jumper era to a brief footnote.
Some “historians” refer to the phenomenon briefly as a fad that occurred at the tail end of the time period known as the Old West. Others have described them as a last gasp of the Wild West before the tide of lawlessness was overcome.
“Webster’s History of the Old West” rather dustily refers to it as, A crime surge that came about in the mid-to-late 1800s as a previously unknown series of men and women became outlaws in a seeming race to gain the highest bounty they could. As most of these unexperienced criminals eventually met their end at the gallows, the lawmakers of the time referred to them as ‘Noose Jumpers’.
As usual, “historians” have it wrong. The Noose Jumpers weren’t mere outlaws and their competition wasn’t just about their bounties. You may wonder how that could be so. How could history be so wrong? Please allow me to explain. It has to do with how history is written.
There is an old saw that says, “History is written by the victors.” This, of course, is poppycock. For the most part the victors have no time for writing history. They are too busy celebrating and planning their next battle to worry with writing detailed books about their conquests. Those few scholars in the conquering party that do put ink to paper find their work discarded by the rest of the world as propaganda. No, the histories that you learn in school or purchase at exorbitant prices in bookstores are written many years later by “historians”.
You likely noticed that I put that particular profession in quotations. I do this to denote sarcasm. Nowadays, the dubious title of “historian” is taken up by simple-minded intellectuals whose purpose most often is to either make money or increase their reputation.
Modern “historians”, having not been direct witnesses to the events they write about, are forced to do copious research. These self-proclaimed luminaries lovingly discard any official writings left behind by the victors. Instead, they hoard dusty diaries and newspaper clippings. With great zeal, they pour over these second and third-hand accounts of the events they wish to portray. To their dismay, such accounts are often filled with claims both mystical and fantastical in nature, rarely providing the clinical picture of what happened. Therefore, “historians” edit these accounts heavily, taking out any material they find objectionable. This leads to great gaps in the narrative which the “historians” are forced to fill with conjecture and supposition.
Once satisfied that their pieced-together history will pass the muster of their fellow scholars and intellectuals, they publish their works. Years later, new generations of “historians” crop up and dissect the work of their predecessors. They will then publish a new revised edition with their opinions further muddying the original events. The end result is that with each passing year histories become further removed from the truth.
You may be wondering why I would begin this story with such a diatribe. I do it because I want to make it clear that the following tale, though true, should not be considered a history. You see, I am not one of the “historians” that I have been reviling. As I mentioned to you earlier, I watched these events unfold. I kept score.
Unlike the dry histories available today, what you read herein will not be cleansed for your modern sensibilities. The things “historians” would have omitted or laughed off as fantasy remain. You will likely learn that things you have accepted all your life as true are not so.
Some of you may find this new awareness uncomfortable. Others, the true historians, will find answers here. If you are one of those brave ones, pay attention. Gaps in the narrative that you have puzzled over for years may finally be filled in.
For the rest of you, see
this as a fiction if you must. That may help you keep your precious view of reality intact. Think of this as an entertaining yarn. An embellishment. But remember what you read in case history repeats. It often does when gods and legends are involved.
There. My diatribe is over. I promise that, from here on out, you will see less of my skills as a complainer and more of my skills as a storyteller.
Best regards,
Your host, M.O.U.P. III, Observer and Caretaker
2: The Death of Bobby Estrella
An excerpt from the Tale of the Red Star Gang
“Death ain’t always the end of a man’s story. Well, for most folks it is. I mean . . . they’re dead. You stop showing up, folks forget you after a while. But for some men, those that lived and died just right, their death is just the beginning of the story.” – Old Jim, town drunk and soothsayer, July 1859.
This tale begins twelve years before the trains came to Luna Gorda. The town was located in the southeastern corner of the New Mexico Territory, just fifteen miles from the Texas border. Luna Gorda had been built around one of the minor, but well-travelled, roads leading to the more populated cities to the north and west. Over its two decades of existence the town had become a frequent pit stop for merchants and travelers alike.
The locals were a hardy mix of Mexican and frontier American stock and the town showed it. The buildings were an eclectic jumble of adobe, brick, and wood plank constructions. The whole assembly looked a bit slapdash on first glance, but if the buildings had one common trait it was that they were tough and made to last.
The streets of Luna Gordo were clean and usually bustling with folks going about their business. On this day, however, trouble was coming and folks knew it. The town was quiet, the streets empty.
Three boys; Tom Dunn, Sandy Tucker, and Luke Bassett; aged ten and twelve and eleven respectively, refused to stay inside like the others. Quietly, they clambered out of the second story window behind the butcher shop and stepped onto the balcony. Once certain that no one was aware of their escape, they boosted each other up and climbed onto the roof.
The boys crept up the slightly sloping roof, careful not to make a sound. Upon reaching the front of the building, they crouched behind a high point in the decorative molding and peered into the street below. The butcher shop, owned by Sandy’s parents, was located on the main street and offered the boys a prime view of the situation below.
At the center of town, right across from each other, were two buildings seemingly at odds; the saloon and the jailhouse. Old Sheriff Paul had been one of the first settlers of Luna Gorda and had ordered the buildings situated this way on purpose. Drunken men were a lot less likely to start trouble if they exited the saloon to see the law waiting to take them in. There was a rocking chair set on the porch in front of the Sheriff’s Office and whenever the saloon was full either one of the deputies or Sheriff Paul himself would be stationed there, waiting with a shotgun across his lap.
There was no one stationed there today, though. Sheriff Paul had grown less brash and more wise in his old age. He and his deputies waited inside, content to deal with the aftermath of the day’s events instead of becoming part of them. This was probably a smart decision because in the street between the jailhouse and the saloon were four members of the Black Spot Gang.
The Black Spots were one of the most feared outlaw bands in the region. Made up mostly of ex-miners, they were known for smudging the right side of their faces with coal dust. They stayed mainly on the Texas side of the border, holding up stagecoaches and rustling cattle. Appearances in Luna Gorda were rare, but today was different. Bobby Estrella had crossed a line with Pablo Jones, the leader of the gang, a dangerous man with an $1,100 bounty.
These particular four were ugly brutes; rough men with hard faces. Their legs were bowed by life on horseback and they were armed, each of them wearing well-used pistols and bandoleers of bullets slung across their chests. To the boys watching from above, it seemed as if the black smears on the men’s cheeks gave them some sort of supernatural power. They gave off a predatory aura that was so tangible it distorted the air around them.
The Black Spots had turned a horse cart on its side and rolled several barrels of goods away from the front of the general store to block the street. One of them had even dragged the sheriff’s abandoned rocking chair into the middle of the road and sat in it. There they lounged on their makeshift barricade, dark hats pulled low over their eyes as they sweltered under the hot sun, waiting for Luna Gorda’s famous gunfighter to make an appearance.
“You see him?” whispered Tom on the roof above the butcher’s shop. The youngest and shortest of the boys, he had found himself wedged behind the other two. He couldn’t see the street beyond the barricade from his position and he didn’t dare stand taller for fear of being seen.
“Shh!” Luke hissed in reply. Heavily freckled, the red-haired boy had fierce green eyes and thick eyebrows that knit close together when he scowled. “I ain’t seen him yet, but he’s coming. I’m sure of it.”
Sandy turned his head away from the street to look at the two of them. “Well, he’d better come quick, ’cause if my momma finds out we’re up here, she’s gonna kill us.”
Sandy was taller and thicker than the other two boys. Helping his father in the butcher shop had helped him build some muscle on his frame. He was also the most even-tempered and often found himself having to be the voice of reason in their little troop.
“I said shh!” Luke said, glancing back at his friends. “No one’s worried about your momma, Sandy. It’s those Black Spots by the saloon. They might shoot if they hear us!”
Tom grinned at Sandy’s frown. “Yeah, Sandy. Shush! Think how mad your momma will be if you get shot.”
“My whispering was quieter than either of your shushings,” Sandy replied coolly.
Tom chuckled and raised himself up higher to get a better look at the street. His eyes widened. Tom stood and pointed, forgetting in his excitement the possible danger below. Sandy quickly pulled him back down, but Tom didn’t stop his smiling. “He’s here! Bobby Estrella is here!”
The other two boys quickly looked to see Bobby round the edge of the barn at the far end of town and turn onto the main street. He rode a white horse and wore a white hat and a fancy shirt with red fringe on the pockets. Black chaps were tied around his legs and on each thigh was sewn his signature symbol; a five-pointed white star, tilted so that no angle pointed straight up or down.
To the boys, he shone like a hero out of legend.
Bobby “Estrella” Finn was a true son of Luna Gorda. His heritage was like that of the town’s in microcosm. His father was an Irish immigrant and his mother was of Mexican blood. It showed in the way his light brown hair and Anglo looks were mixed with darkly tanned skin.
His ties with the town went deeper than that, though. Bobby had been orphaned as a small child and the people of Luna Gorda shared the responsibility of raising him. Growing up, he had been passed from home to home, fed and taught by the community.
Bobby had been the pride of the town in his youth. The orphan was charming, easy going, smart, and not afraid to work. The nickname “Estrella”, which was Spanish for star, had been given to him because of the way his personality shone. He latched onto that name with pleasure. As he grew to his teenage years, he rejected his original last name and began introducing himself as Bobby Estrella. If someone asked about his parents, he told them that his father was a ghost and that his mother was Luna Gorda.
(Observer’s Note: Though the correct Spanish pronunciation of Estrella turns the two “L”s into a “Y” sound, Bobby tended to prefer the local Americanized bastardization of the word. When he introduced himself, it was Bobby Estrella with the two “L”s pronounced like in the word “fella”. This created a debate in the town and in the end, folks pronounced his name differently depending on their own preference.)
The locals hadn’t believed it when they first heard he had become an outlaw. Eve
ry time the sheriff would put up his wanted poster, someone would tear it down. But as his bounty grew, so did the evidence against him. People that had housed him in his youth began finding small packages of money left at their doors and each time Bobby travelled into town, he was wearing more extravagant things.
On this particular day, Estrella’s wanted poster advertised that his bounty in the Territory of New Mexico was $1,750. He was wanted for robbery, murder, and cattle rustling, but you wouldn’t have known it from the flamboyant manner in which he rode down that main street. The cocky grin on his face didn’t lessen when the Black Spots’ barricade came into view.
Riding a short distance behind him was a much less resplendent man on a skinny mule. His cheeks were sallow and he had the rumpled look of a man who had slept in his clothes for several nights in a row. He was twitching and eyeing the waiting gang nervously. The boys watching recognized him right away as Jeb Wickee, town layabout and part-time deputy. He was also Bobby Estrella’s childhood friend and local informant.
The Black Spots stood as Bobby came into view and the air of menace surrounding them intensified. Estrella slowed down as he approached and hopped down from his horse. He then turned away from them and handed the reigns to Jeb.
“Here. Hitch ’em up. I’ll be just a minute,” Bobby said casually.
“Estrella!” shouted the tallest of the Black Spots. His name was Gil Beverly and he had a bounty of $700. He was the one that Pablo put in charge of this mission. “I wouldn’t turn my back if I was you.”
Estrella turned back to face them, his grin remaining as he shook his head. “Just what are you desperadoes doing?”
“You know why we’re here,” said Gil.
Bobby sighed. “What I meant was, what are the four of you doing sitting in the middle of the street?”
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