Noose Jumpers: A Mythological Western

by Trevor H. Cooley

  Later, as the sun began to set, they let the fire die. Sandy set out his bedroll and Pecos sat down by the remnants of the fire. The specter leaned back against a rock and Sandy saw a plug of tobacco appear in his hand. Pecos bit off a hunk and the plug disappeared again.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” Sandy said. “When did you take up chewing?”

  Pecos, spat a stream of tobacco juice into the softly glowing coals next to him. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Where’s that burnt out stub of a cigar you usually have clenched in your teeth?” Sandy pressed. “Ever since we robbed that bank all you do is chew.”

  Pecos snorted. “Cigar? Never touch the stuff. I’m a Red Horse man . . .” His eyes widened. He sat upright and spat the wad of tobacco out of his mouth, letting out an anguished curse.

  “What?” Sandy asked.

  “I loved that cigar. It was a Dulcet. My favorite brand.” The specter stood up and turned to Sandy, a look of panic on his face. “Is there anything else different?”

  Sandy blinked back at him in confusion. “Huh?”

  “My hair? My clothes? They still the same?” Pecos reached up and touched his face with trembling fingers. “You got a mirror in your saddlebags?”

  “Luke’s the one who carries a mirror,” Sandy reminded him. He looked the old cowboy over. “I don’t see anything else different, or . . . actually now that you mention it, your hair looks a little less gray.”

  “It’s those damned newspapers again!” He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes and let out a sigh. “I guess it could be worse. Looking a little younger won’t hurt me none.”

  “I have no idea what you’re going on about,” Sandy replied.

  “It has something to do with the witchery that keeps me hanging around,” Pecos explained. “The things that folks start believing about me sometimes become true.”

  Sandy frowned. “You’re telling me those wild tales people put in the papers actually affect you?”

  “They didn’t change me none while I was still alive,” Pecos said. “But ever since I bit the dust this stuff happens from time to time. Usually when some new writer tries to tell the stories. They always get the details wrong. Did you know my eyes weren’t always blue?”

  Sandy remembered a quote from one of the first Pecos Bill stories his mother had read to him when he was a child; the story of Pecos’ birth. He said it aloud, “‘Old Bill’s momma named him Pecos ’cause his eyes were as blue as the waters of the Pecos River itself.’”

  “Hogwash!” Pecos said. “You and I passed the Pecos a few days back. You saw it. Water as brown as hell. I ain’t never seen it blue.” He snorted. “No. Some writer got it wrong and you know how I find out about it? One day I look at my reflection and see blue eyes staring back at me. The crazy thing is that part of me thinks that’s right; that it’s always been that way. It’s like a string of fake new memories got all tangled up with my old ones.” A sigh escaped his lungs. “That’s one of the downsides that come with this power.”

  A grin spread across Sandy’s lips at the absurdity of it. “And now you find yourself suddenly liking chewing tobacco?”

  “It ain’t funny! I can sort it out now that I’m thinking about it real hard, but otherwise I tend to forget.” Pecos shook his head. “This new one’s blasted annoying. I never did like the taste of chaw, but now the words Red Horse keep flashing through my mind . . .” The old cowboy’s lips twisted. “It’s gotta be a squib! A confounded advertisement! It’s got to be in more than one paper too.”

  Sandy started to understand some things. “So this downside. Is this the reason Widowmaker’s color keeps changing?”

  “Yeah. None of ’em can seem to decide what he really looked like. Sometimes I even forget.” Pecos took off his hat and threw it on the ground in disgust. He rubbed his head. “I’m leaving now. At least this headache will go away.”

  “We’ll hit the Rio Grande tomorrow,” Sandy said. “You reckon we’ll find the witch soon?”

  Pecos frowned. “If you’re lucky we won’t find her at all.”

  “It’s why I came all the way here instead of heading back to Puerta Muerte,” Sandy reminded him.

  “Yeah, well you aimed pretty good. We’re not far from the place I saw her last. Don’t worry. Once we start looking she’ll find us.” With that, he vanished.

  Sandy buried the bones of the turkey and slid into his bedroll just as the last bit of light faded from the sky. It was a dark night, lit only by the cascade of stars above, but Sandy found it difficult to quiet his mind. He kept thinking of the witch that he would meet the next day and the answers that he would get from her. When he did finally manage to calm his mind enough to sleep, his dreams were strange and vivid.

  Sometime later his eyes fluttered open to a flickering light. An unfamiliar man was crouched next to the fire. He had added wood and stoked it back to life. Sandy slowly reached for the pistol he kept at his side.

  “Are you fingering a gun under that blanket, Sandy Tucker?” the man asked in a deep baritone, lifting his head to look at Sandy. “I would rather you did not.”

  The stranger was of medium build and he wore a short-waisted jacket and denim pants. His black hair was cut short and he was clean shaven. His skin was a deep brown. He could have passed for Mexican, but the accent was off. He spoke English with a careful cadence that told Sandy he was likely an educated Indian. Sandy’s eyes moved to the rifle that rested across the man’s knees.

  A gust of wind passed through the campsite, nearly putting the fire out. “Careful,” said Pecos, appearing nearby. “This man has a powerful backer. It’s how he slipped by without me knowing.”

  That the man had a backer was concerning, but even more concerning was the fact that he knew Sandy’s name. Sandy sat up, drawing his gun and pulling back the hammer in one quick motion. The stranger moved as quickly as Sandy did, lifting his rifle into position. The two men looked down each other’s barrels, their fingers on the triggers.

  “Looks like we have a problem,” Sandy said.

  “Is that so?” the man asked.

  “We both pulled our guns, but neither one of us shot,” Sandy replied.

  “Oh. I understand what you mean,” said the man with a slight smile. “You think that this is a standoff. Either we both put down our guns or we both die?”

  “Assuming your reflexes are as good as mine, yes,” Sandy replied.

  The man nodded his head slowly. “Unfortunately, you are wrong.”

  “I don’t see why,” Sandy replied. Then he felt a line of cold steel press up against his neck.

  “Dag-gum it!” said Pecos in surprise. “He ain’t alone.”

  Sandy glanced back over his shoulder to see a sneer on the face of the young boy who was holding the knife to his throat.

  13: Coyote and Pup

  An excerpt from the Tale of Sandy Tucker

  “I do not understand, Great Spirit,” said Little Tree. “The Bear and Bull spirits are stronger than man. The Eagle and the Hawk spirits have better sight. The Cougar and Wolf are better hunters. Why do you favor man when he is weaker than all these?”

  “Ah, but you are wrong, young one,” answered the Great Spirit. “Those spirits are only stronger than man when he believes them to be.” – A rare passage from, “The Legend of Little Tree”, an ancient piece of Sioux folklore.

  Keeping his rifle trained on Sandy, the bounty hunter slowly stood from his crouch. Sandy’s Colt followed the man, though he didn’t dare try to throw back his blanket and stand with him. The edge of the knife was cold and sharp against his throat and the knee pressed into his back told him that the child had leverage if he tried to move quickly.

  “Careful, Sandy,” said Pecos, who was standing not far from the Indian. The concern etched in the specter’s face was enhanced by the flickering firelight. “I’m not gonna be much help to you at this point. My wind ain’t gonna stop a knife or bullet.”

  Sandy’s min
d churned as he tried to find a way out of the situation. He doubted he could shoot his way free. The only thing Sandy could think to do was try and keep his captors off balance.

  “I know who you are,” said Sandy, keeping his head very still. He could feel the boy’s breath against the back of his ear. “You are the Coyote.”

  “I have never liked that name,” said the man, but he didn’t deny it.

  The Coyote was a bounty hunter that had become quite well known among the outlaws of the region. An Indian that dressed like a white man and hunted down high-priced bounties. He had quite the nasty reputation. Sandy’s only relief came from the fact that the Coyote wasn’t one of Jeb’s men. He was more likely to be hunting them than helping them, which meant that there was a slight chance this had nothing to do with the robbery.

  “And that would mean that this kid behind me is your Pup,” Sandy added. It was an easy assumption. The fact that the man brought his child bounty hunting with him was his most famous quirk.

  “That Pup will remove your head if you do not lower your gun,” the Coyote replied, keeping his rifle steady, his eye focused down the sights.

  “That’d fit your reputation. Folks say that the Coyote is sly and his Pup is mean,” Sandy said.

  Stories of the Pup said that the child was a mute and little more than a raging animal, known to scratch and bite captives. As if to punctuate the validity of this rumor, the boy growled and pressed the knife tighter. Sandy sublimated a wince as he felt the blade score his skin.

  “But we still have a standoff,” Sandy said, refusing to lower his weapon. “He can’t kill me with that knife fast enough to keep me from pulling the trigger and I do not miss. Even if you shoot first from that distance, I’ll still fire. Besides, your bullet could go right through me and hit him. Even if he survives, he’ll be doing it without a father.”

  The Pup tensed up, ready to kill, but the Coyote shot him a glance. “Nakai!” The child let out a grunt, but his grip loosened slightly. The man returned his focus to Sandy, “In any of those outcomes you still end up dead. If you intend to live, lower your gun.”

  “You’re promising my life?” Sandy said, his voice thick with disbelief. “I hear that the Coyote always brings in his bounties dead.”

  “I told you I do not like that name,” the man said in a warning tone. “As for these things you have heard, they are the lies of outlaws. If I am paid better for a live bounty, I deliver it. Although,” the bounty hunter admitted, a slight smile bending his lips. “I do not often hunt bounties that must be brought in alive.”

  “It’s probably best to give in for now, son,” Pecos advised. Sandy frowned and the specter raised a calming hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to get you free sooner or later.”

  Sandy wasn’t quite ready to back down yet. This was likely his best chance to learn exactly what he was up against. Captors didn’t tend to talk much to their prisoners. He frowned at the Coyote. “Why would a big time hunter like you come after someone like me, anyway? Last I heard I was only worth 175 dollars.”

  “That was before you robbed that bank,” the man replied. “Your bounty has not gone up everywhere yet, but in Puerta de la Muerte you are worth two thousand, thanks to that Sheriff.”

  Sandy swallowed. That was a lot to process. Two thousand was an extravagant amount, far larger than he had expected, and the fact that the sheriff was offering it to more than just his local outlaw bands was concerning. Even more troublesome was the fact that word had gotten out so quickly. It had only been nine days since the robbery. “How did you hear about that?”

  “Four days ago, I tracked down an outlaw I have been hunting,” the bounty hunter replied. “He tried to trade me information about you if I would promise to bring him in alive.”

  “Who was this outlaw?” Sandy asked.

  “‘Tough’ Jim Sanchez, bounty 500,” said the Indian. “He said that a sheepherder had seen you headed for the mountains. He figured that you were traveling to Mesilla, but I picked up your tracks myself. You seem to be travelling out of your way if that is where you are headed.”

  So he had been seen, even after all his precautions. Sandy frowned in irritation. Jim Sanchez was one of Santos’ men. He was a big guy, known for his brawling. He claimed that he had only lost a fight once and bragged that he had never been knocked out.

  “So what did you do with old ‘Tough Jim’?” Sandy wondered. Turning in a bounty took time. Hunters usually had to wait around in town while the local sheriff got the money to pay them. That could take days. If the Coyote really had tracked him all the way from the Pecos River, he couldn’t have stopped along the way. “You let him go?”

  The Coyote glared. “I am done talking. If you want to live, drop the gun. Otherwise, I shoot!”

  “Wait!” said Sandy. “You keep saying you won’t kill me if I surrender, but before I do, tell me. Does the Sheriff want me dead or alive?”

  “Right now I do not care. You have me annoyed,” the Indian man said. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Alright! Alright.” Sandy said, raising his left hand in surrender while he lowered his gun with his right, laying it on the ground next to him.

  “Nakai, take it,” the Coyote said.

  The boy removed his blade from Sandy’s throat and stepped out from behind him. He picked up the revolver and, with practiced hands, began removing the bullets.

  This was Sandy’s first real glance at the Pup. Much like his father, the boy’s hair was cut short and he was dressed in Anglo clothing. He wore a waist-length jacket and long denim pants. A felt hat sat on his head. Hanging from his neck was a silver and turquoise pendant that gleamed in the firelight. The sheath for that long knife of his hung from his belt.

  “So, Pup, your name is Nakai?” Sandy asked. “That’s a Navajo name, isn’t it?”

  The Coyote lunged forward and swung back his rifle with both hands. Sandy barely had time to raise his hands defensively as the Indian thrust the butt of the gun at his face. Sandy caught the wood in the palm of his left hand, but he was no match for the force of the swing.

  Sandy’s head snapped back and his eyesight flared as his knuckles were slammed into his eye with considerable force. “Wait! You need to know . . .” he said feebly, trying to think of something to say before the bounty hunter struck him again.

  The Coyote grasped the front of his shirt and yanked Sandy up out of his bedroll. Through swimming vision Sandy could see that the man’s eyes were full of rage. “You do not call my son by that name, outlaw!”

  Sandy briefly considered attacking the bounty hunter now that his rifle wasn’t pointed at him. If he could wrestle the gun from the man, he would have the upper hand. Unfortunately, he heard a click. The Pup had left a bullet in the chamber of Sandy’s Colt and was pointing it at him, his lip pulled up in a snarl.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know there were rules,” Sandy said. He noted that it was a good thing he hadn’t tried to fight, because his legs didn’t feel quite steady under him.

  The Coyote let go of his shirt and stepped back, raising his rifle as Sandy swayed on his feet. “The first rule is you do not speak to my son.”

  “That’s what you get for being a dag-gum blabbermouth,” said Pecos with a snort. “It ain’t like you to talk so much. Keep your mouth shut and watch like usual. That’s how you’ll find the right time to make your move.”

  It was sound advice and usually Sandy would have agreed with that statement, but this situation was different. The Coyote was a seasoned bounty hunter and wouldn’t be lulled into complacency by quiet compliance. No, the best thing he could do was keep the man off balance. “And the rest of the rules?”

  “You do as you are told. I will make the rest up as I go,” the Indian said. “Now, roll up that bedroll. We are leaving.”

  “Right now?” Sandy said. He tried to think of ways to stall. “You don’t want to wait until daybreak? It’s a dark night and in this terrain the horses are liable to break a
leg.”

  “The moon will be out soon. Besides, I do not wish to stay here any longer than I have to,” the Coyote replied. “It is said that a yee-naaldlooshii stalks this place.”

  “Yee-naaldlooshii?” Sandy said, feeling a shiver. “A skinwalker?”

  “He’s talking about the witch,” Pecos said. “I knew she was close by.”

  The Indian raised a curious eyebrow at Sandy. “You know of these things?”

  “My mother was half Navajo,” Sandy replied. Elizabeth-Ann had never put much belief in the traditions of her mother’s people, but a look of fear had always come into her eyes when telling tales of the skinwalkers; men and women who had committed acts so evil that they had lost some of their humanity and became able to take on the forms of animals.

  “You have Dineh blood in you?” said the Coyote with a smirk. “Then you understand why I do not wish to linger. Roll it up.”

  Sandy did as instructed, taking the time to roll the blankets neatly while his mind churned. It was so frustrating. Why did he have to be waylaid now when the Rio Grande and the answers he sought were just a few miles away? He glanced at Pecos.

  “Like I said, just play along ‘till the right moment comes,” the specter advised, then vanished in a gust of wind.

  “Easy for you to say,” Sandy mumbled. Still, a plan formed in his mind. He could see his horse standing at the edge of the firelight and his rifle was still in its holster. Once he had finished with the bedroll, the bounty hunter would have him tie it behind her saddle. If he timed it right, he could toss the bedroll at the Coyote and grab his rifle. That comforting thought in his mind, he picked his hat up off of the ground next to where he had slept and placed it on his head. He turned to face his captor. “What next?”

  The Coyote’s gun was still pointed firmly at his heart. “Stick out your hands.”

  Sandy did so and the Coyote nodded to his son. The Pup tucked Sandy’s Colt into his waistband and pulled a line of thin rope from his pocket. The child pressed Sandy’s hands together palm-to-palm and then proceeded to tie his hands in a complicated fashion, binding Sandy’s wrists and winding the rope around his middle fingers, tying them tightly together.