Noose Jumpers: A Mythological Western

by Trevor H. Cooley

  Luke winced. He had grown used to his mentor’s dark and demanding demeanor, but that last remark had hit a bit close to home. He shrugged it off and rode down the hillside towards Luna Gorda.

  The new section of town was busy with people strutting about, some of them in fancy dress. These weren’t locals, but travelers stopping in town between destinations. From the dearth of horses, many of them were likely passengers perhaps waiting for the next train to Albuquerque. The newest buildings were inns and shops built solely for the purpose of catering to the needs of these visitors.

  For some reason this made Luke’s skin crawl. This street reminded him of other towns; bigger ones. It seemed wrong for something like this to spring up in Luna Gorda. He quickly turned down an alleyway and headed for the old main street.

  Some of the tension left his shoulders as the familiar buildings came into view. Yet even here there were changes. The windows of the old barber shop were boarded up, the barber pole taken down. The street wasn’t even as well maintained as in years past. He passed several old piles of horse manure and the huge ruts left by carriages on rainy days past hadn’t been filled in.

  Luke paused outside the Sheriff’s Office, noting that there was no rocking chair in front of the jailhouse. Old Sheriff Paul had retired a few years back and his replacement, Sheriff Dale, had decided to part with tradition. Luke’s eyes were drawn to the bounty board outside the office and a smile crossed his lips as he saw some familiar faces.

  A peal of raucous laughter from across the street caught Luke’s attention. He slid down from his horse and tied it up outside the saloon. This, at least, would be a place where he could feel at home. His smile faltered when he saw that the old saloon sign had been taken down. In its place was a newly painted sign that said, Hank’s Saloon. Luke pushed his way through the swinging doors and stepped inside.

  At least the interior hadn’t changed much. He found the familiar jumble of mismatched chairs and tables comforting. The only surprise was how empty the place was. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, the saloon was usually at least half-full of travelers and the sound of piano playing could usually be heard from halfway down the street. Today, the piano stood vacant at the back of the room and there was only one table occupied.

  The three men sitting there were talking loudly and laughing like they had been drinking for a long while already. Luke’s eyes gave them a practiced glance. There were two bottles of liquor opened on the table and they were playing a game of cards but there was no cash at stake. The two of them with their backs to him wore pistol belts, but he dismissed them as a threat. Their clothes weren’t dirty and the fact that there hadn’t been any horses tied outside told him they had likely come by train.

  Luke walked up to the bar and eyed the old barman who was facing away from him, cleaning a glass. “When did you start calling the place ‘Hank’s Saloon’?”

  The barman spun around, rag and glass in hand, blinking in surprise at his sudden appearance. A reproachful smile lit up the man’s weathered face. “Well, hello to you too, Luke.”

  Luke raised an eyebrow in response. “The hello was implied.”

  The old man chuckled. “Got the new sign done last week. Some railroad tycoon built a saloon of his own next to the station. Don’t want folks to confuse the two.” He cocked his head. “You been to see your momma yet?”

  “Just pour me some mezcal, Hank,” Luke said.

  The men at the table behind him chose that moment to burst out in a round of laughter. Hank shot them an irritated glance, but returned his attention to Luke. “You should see her. I saw her over at the church just this Sunday. I heard her telling the pastor how worried she was. You know, with that bounty on your head and all.”

  “If I was looking for a lecture I would have been to see her first,” Luke interrupted with a glower. “Mezcal.”

  The barman shook his head and placed a glass on the counter in front of Luke. He turned around and grabbed a bottle off of the shelf. “Just see her before you go. I promise I won’t tell her you came here first.”

  Hank pulled the stopper and went to pour, but Luke placed his hand over the top of the glass. “Uh-uh. The real thing.”

  Hank frowned and bent to fuss around under the counter. Bottles clinked and when he stood back up, he held a dusty clear bottle. He lifted it and wiped off the dust to reveal a gold label with a demonic skull on the front that read, El Diablo Mezcal. There was very little liquor remaining in the bottle and Luke could just make out the fat white worm sitting in the bottom.

  “Don’t care what you say!” shouted one of the men at the table. He was the loudest mouthed of the three men, his voice gravelly and thick with whiskey. “I done worked the tracks on three different railroads and I say one injun’s worth ten of them lazy Chinamen!”

  Hank rolled his eyes, but didn’t look directly at the men, instead focusing on wiping the dust off the neck of the bottle. He pulled out the stopper and sniffed at the liquid inside, his lips twisted in disgust. “I can’t believe you still like this rotgut, Luke.”

  Luke watched as Hank poured the last dregs of the bottle into the glass, skillfully stopping just before the worm fell out. The bartender then started to set the bottle down, but Luke raised his hand. “Don’t spare the worm.”

  “You know that thing’s not supposed to be in there,” Hank said, but Luke just gave him a dull look in reply.

  Hank sighed. He tilted the bottle over the glass again and tapped the bottom. The pale plump worm tumbled out of the neck and plopped into the glass. Luke picked up the glass and tilted it slowly back, draining a good third of it. He swallowed and hissed through his teeth.

  Hank winced. “Disgusting. This brand’s garbage. I used to tell Estrella that too. No decent brewer would let a worm into their liquor.”

  “Nonsense,” said the Stranger’s deep voice. The specter appeared in a flash of black mist, leaning against the bar next to Luke. “Diablo is the only brand.”

  Luke wasn’t surprised that the bartender didn’t react to the specter’s presence. No one seemed to be able to see or hear the Stranger except for him. He had learned that lesson early on, though it had taken several embarrassing episodes before he had been convinced.

  A full glass appeared in the Stranger’s hand. Unlike Luke’s, it was filled with living worms. They squirmed in the clear liquor. He lifted it in front of his face and a grin parted the Stranger’s pale lips, exposing a set of yellowed teeth, several of them capped with gold. He chuckled. “A piece of the devil in every glass.”

  Luke ignored him and took another swallow. “Don’t make any changes, Hank. That mezcal is why I keep coming back to you.”

  While he nursed his drink, the men at the table behind him continued their argument. Evidently they weren’t mere passengers, but employees of the railroad; overseers of the workers. The gravelly-voiced one was highly opinionated and responded angrily to the quieter words of the other men at his table. “I tell you I seen ’em every day! Sittin’ around the tracks in their stupid round hats, layin’ down, beggin’ for water! Hell, the water boys spent half the day fillin’ Chinaman cups.”

  “Pshh!” said another one. “C’mon, Gary! No way they’re lazier than any average Irishman. Half the layabouts in every town I been in are red-headed paddies.”

  Hank shot Luke a cautious glance. When he was a child, Luke had been sensitive about his red hair and freckled face. He used to get into scraps with the other children when they teased him about it. But if the remark bothered him, Luke didn’t let it show.

  “Bull!” said the one they called Gary. “That’s only if they’re drunk. You put a common sober Irishman on the line and he’d outwork any two Chinese!”

  “What about the injuns?” asked the calmest of the three. “I used to work the chain gangs and they was always a problem.”

  The Stranger growled and drained his glass in one big gulp. He slammed it back down on the bar and said, “Ain’t it a bit loud in here?”r />
  “Damn right,” Luke said under his breath. He threw back his head and poured the last of the liquor into his mouth. The stiff worm tumbled across his tongue and he pinned it between his molars as he swallowed the liquid down.

  The burning of the alcohol was nothing compared to the sensation when the worm burst. An acidic tang filled his mouth and the burning sensation travelled upwards from his throat into his mind, settling somewhere just behind his eyes. Luke shook slightly as he let out a slow breath. The Stranger grinned.

  “ . . . and we hardly had to water the injuns,” Gary continued at the top of his voice. “Naw! I tell you it don’t matter if a man’s red, black, or brown. They’s all better than them yellow-!”

  “Would you shut the hell up?” Luke shouted. He didn’t turn around, but just stared at his empty glass, processing the surging sensation in his head.

  The men at the table were momentarily stunned into silence. Loudmouthed Gary was the first one to come to his senses enough to summon some outrage. “You talkin’ to me?”

  “You’re the one hurting my ears,” Luke said, still not bothering to face the man.

  The chair scraped against the wood floor as Gary stood. “What’s your problem, boy? Your momma a Chinaman?”

  Luke said nothing. He wondered if the burning in his mind had really been caused by the worm or if it was the Stranger’s doing. He’d never had that particular reaction from eating a mezcal worm before. Whatever it was, he sure felt alive.

  “You know who I am, boy?” Gary pressed, his low voice threatening.

  There was another slight scraping sound and Luke turned his head just enough to catch the man’s silhouette out of the corner of his eye. Gary now held a rifle in his right hand. The reason Luke hadn’t noticed the weapon before was that it had been lying on the ground next to his chair.

  Luke’s jaw tightened. How sloppy of him. “Yeah. You’re the loud one.”

  The Stranger chuckled.

  Gary growled and strode forward. He gripped his rifle in both hands and swung it back, aiming to slam the butt right into the back of Luke’s neck. He wasn’t expecting his prey to be so fast.

  Luke spun, his left hand drawing his sidearm in one fluid motion. He shoved the revolver between Gary’s upraised arms and jabbed the end of the barrel right into the base of the man’s nose. Gary flinched in pain and let go of the rifle with one hand as he stepped back, but Luke moved with him, keeping his front sight jabbed into the man’s septum.

  The other two men’s jaws dropped in shock as Gary stumbled backwards. The back of his legs hit the table and he fell backwards across it, sending their liquor bottles spinning onto the floor. Luke didn’t let up, putting one knee up on the table and leaning over the man, his gun still pressing painfully into tender flesh.

  Gary cried out in pain and Luke reached for the rifle with his free hand, attempting to pry it from the man’s fingers. Gary resisted until Luke pulled back the hammer of his revolver with his thumb and pressed harder. Luke’s eyes were feverish with intensity and to Gary it seemed he was looking into the gaze of a madman. Gary let go of his weapon.

  “Luke!” said Hank, alarmed. “Don’t go shooting nobody in here!”

  At that point, one of Gary’s friends had gathered his wits enough to grab his own pistol. Luke sensed the movement and released the rifle. By the time the man brought his weapon to bear, Luke had drawn his spare from the shoulder holster and had it pointed at his face.

  “I’d put that back away if I were you,” Luke advised, his intense gaze still focused on the man pinned underneath him.

  Gary’s friend trembled. As Luke had drawn his spare, his jacket had flapped open, exposing the tilted red star sewn into the silky black interior. The friend put his gun away, licking his lips as he said, “Red Star, Gary.”

  Gary swallowed. “Y-you’re Luke Basset? The gunfighter? I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean nothing about your mama.”

  Luke smiled at the recognition in the man’s voice. It was good to know that his reputation was growing. Luke Basset of the Red Star Gang had a $150 bounty and a tendency for challenging other gunfighters.

  Luke let his expression grow eager. “So . . . Gary who? You were anxious for me to know. You anyone famous?”

  “N-no! I’m a nobody!” Gary promised. “Just a drunk railroad man is all.”

  Luke looked at the other two men that shared Gary’s table. “Is that so?”

  The two men nodded their heads, backing away. Luke pulled away from Gary and stepped back, letting the man sit up. He kept both guns trained on the men as Gary rubbed blood from his nose with one shaking hand.

  “Then get out,” Luke said. “You bother me.”

  Gary snatched up his rifle and he and his friends rushed out of the saloon. Luke smiled and put his guns away. He returned to the bar.

  The Stranger shook his head and downed another wormy shot glass. He smiled as he said, “I’d have shot him.”

  Hank wasn’t so pleased. “What’re you doing, Luke? Chasing away my customers? They ain’t even paid yet!”

  Luke sighed and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a stack of bills and peeled off a few. He smacked them down on the bar. “I didn’t want that loudmouth around anyway. I’m here to meet someone.”

  Hank picked up the money and counted it quickly. “Fine, but that man was railroad security. What if they bring back the Sheriff?”

  “Dale?” Luke scoffed. “He won’t do anything. No one was shot.”

  “Yeah?” Hank said. “Don’t forget that bounty of yours. What if they try to collect it?”

  “Dale’s not so eager to bring me in. My bounty’s not big enough to make it worth his while.” He smiled. “Yet.”

  The barman gave him a wary look. “Will you promise me you’re not going to shoot this person you’re meeting? Least not in here?”

  Luke leaned against the counter and lifted his shot glass, gesturing for Hank to fill it. “I paid you enough to open another bottle.”

  Hank frowned, but bent down behind the bar again. When he stood he was holding an even dustier bottle of mezcal, this one full. Luke could see two worms drifting lazily in the bottom. “This is my last bottle. You’re lucky I didn’t just throw it out.”

  “Order more. You know we’ll be back for it,” Luke said, gesturing with his glass again.

  “We?” Hank said.

  Luke pursed his lips, irritated by his slipup. The Stranger chuckled again and vanished.

  Luke didn’t correct himself, but waited until Hank had opened the bottle and filled his glass before saying, “Don’t worry. I’m not here planning to shoot anybody. The person I’m meeting here is an old friend.”

  4: Half an Outlaw

  An excerpt from The Tale of Sandy Tucker

  “The ignorance of these bastards! Just cause a man’s good at using a gun don’t mean he’s bad.” – Wyatt Earp, while reading the paper one morning in San Francisco, 1896

  The town of Puerta de la Muerte was a Texas town located fifteen miles from the New Mexico Territory border. It was a no-good place full of no-good folks and the hills around it were no better. It was bandit country, a lawless part of the countryside where bad men could freely roam. Unfortunately, it was also on a prime spot of land. Built over an aquifer, the town was an ideal stop for people looking to take the long journey over desert plains to the more populous areas of the state.

  Folks who knew the area avoided the place whenever possible. But not all people were savvy enough to understand the wisdom of taking the long way around. Folks with the misfortune of having a desire or need to travel through the area had a difficult time finding drivers willing to take them. Those few carriage drivers willing to make the journey charged high fees for their service.

  Ted Bertram, was such a driver. He was a weathered man with a hunched over frame, but keen eyes and a sharp mind. He was a veteran coachman with decades of experience and had been guiding folks through Puerta de la Muerte for a number of yea
rs. In all that time, his carriage had only been robbed twice and that was because he had a system that worked.

  On this day, though, he was wondering if the extra money this journey made him was worth it. It was a hot day and he had a head cold and, to make matters worse, his passengers were wealthy and naïve to the ways of the frontier. They looked it, too. The old man and his granddaughter were the types of folks that would get an outlaw salivating. Ted worried that his usual methods for passing through the area unscathed would fall short this time.

  His plan required making it within five miles of town without being hassled. This was normally an easy matter. Just stick to the main road. The bandits knew better than to attack people on the way into town. But this day there had been several times when Ted’s keen eyes had caught the figure of a rider in the hills. The rider had kept his distance so far, but seemed to be watching the coach.

  Several times, Ted grasped the rifle he kept on the bench next to him, taking strength from its comforting weight. He also had a short barreled shotgun in a holster next to the bench, but he rarely had to use it. These weapons were mainly for show, something he carried in plain view to give his passengers confidence. He wondered if he would have to use them this trip.

  Time crawled by at an incredibly slow pace. Ted would have urged his horses forward faster if the road hadn’t been so heavily rutted. Despite his concerns, the rider never approached. Ted chuckled with relief as the carriage came to the top of the large hill at the appointed place without incident. His contact would be waiting nearby.

  Sure enough, standing in the middle of the road at the bottom of the hill, was a gray horse with a yellow flag affixed to its saddle. A man stood in front of the horse and waved the carriage down. Ted’s smile faded when he saw the silver star gleaming on the man’s lapel.

  Ted slowed the horses down and brought the carriage to a stop at the bottom of the hill. He scowled as the man approached.