High Valley Manhunt: Laramie Davies #1

by B. S. Dunn

  A hand grabbed his shirt and dragged him to his feet. Through blurred vision, Laramie could just make out the face of Shell Coltrain, a smile plastered across it. He struck a vicious blow to Laramie's face and split his lips as they mashed against his teeth. A second blow snapped his head back and it bobbled about, senseless from the last blow. Blood flowed freely from a cut on his face and. things grew dark as consciousness began to leave him.

  Shell let go of Laramie's shirt. The gunfighter collapsed to the ground with a low moan.

  The Judge stepped forward and lashed out with his boot, anger and frustration evident in his actions. It landed solidly and Laramie felt pain shoot through his ribs. The second blow followed by another, glanced off his shoulder before it collected him in the side of the head. Mercifully, darkness finally claimed him.

  “Whoa, hold on there Judge,” the Sheriff tried to calm his brother, “Try to leave somethin' for the hangman.”

  The old man blew hard from his exertions, “Alive or dead he's still going to hang. You mark my words. He'll hang and everyone will see what we do to murderers who kill our own.”

  “Tie him up Shell,” Jeb Coltrain ordered his nephew. “We'll stay until mornin' and then head back to Rock Springs.”

  Shell rolled Laramie's prone form over and bound the gunman's hands behind him with a strip of rawhide. He dragged the body over to where Sally sat and dropped him roughly to the ground. She immediately started to tend his wounds to make sure he was okay.

  “May I have some water?” she asked Shell Coltrain, “Just to clean him up a little.”

  The younger Coltrain sneered, “Hell no. Be happy with the fact he is still alive. It's more than he deserves and more than my brother got.”

  He turned and walked away.

  As she returned her attention back to Laramie, a canteen appeared in front of her eyes. Sally looked up as Orson Blake stood over her.

  He smiled warmly, “Here, take it.”

  Sally took the canteen and asked hopefully, “Can you help me?”

  Blake shook his head sadly, “No, I'm sorry. I should not have even given you that.”

  He turned away without another word and walked off.

  *

  “Cato,” Harbin called out, “Where in hell are you?”

  The outlaw emerged from the dark as he buttoned his flies, “I'm here, stop yellin.”

  Harbin pointed at Slate's cooling body, “Get rid of that will you, before it starts stinkin' up the place. After that, keep an eye on the girl. When we ride in the mornin', she's comin' with us.”

  Cato looked at Harbin, the look on his face said, you shot him, you get rid of him, but decided against voicing his opinion. Instead, he bent down, took the body by the hands and dragged Slate unceremoniously out of camp.

  Harbin looked around for Benny and found him going through Laramie's belongings.

  “What in hell are you doin' kid?” Harbin asked curiously.

  “Just lookin',”Benny said without an upward glance.

  “Just remember, any money you find gets split,” Blackie warned him.

  Benny straightened up, unhappy, “What about his guns, can I have them?”

  Harbin shrugged, “Sure, why not.”

  Benny unbuckled his scarred Peacemakers and strapped on Laramie's Remingtons. He tied the rawhide thongs about his thighs and fiddled with the gun belt until it felt comfortable.

  He smiled at Harbin, “There, now I'm a damned legend too.”

  Harbin shook his head in bemusement, “Takes more than a gun to make a man, kid.”

  Benny's ugly stare burned holes in Blackie Harbin's back as he walked away.

  *

  Soon after sun up, the mountain air was cool and fresh with the scent of pine and wood smoke. The horses stamped their feet, eager to be on the trail. Laramie had spent a cold, uncomfortable night with his hands tied behind his back.

  In the aftermath of his beating, everything hurt. His ribs were tender from the Judge's kicks and his face bore the signs of Shell's attack. His lips were cut and tender, and one eye was bruised and swollen. The small cut above his temple had stopped bleeding, but the residual headache was testament to the Judge's kick that had caught him in the side of his head.

  Laramie rolled so he could face Sally, his muscles screamed with the effort and a low moan escaped his battered lips.

  “How are you doin' Sally?” he whispered so his voice wouldn't carry.

  “I'm scared,” she answered honestly, “What will happen to me?”

  Laramie tried to reassure her, “Just do what they say and you'll be fine. Don't make any trouble or give them any excuse to hurt you. When I can get away from these men, I'll come after you.”

  “But how? How are you going to get away? If you try, they'll kill you,” the tears welled in her large brown eyes.

  “If I don't escape, they'll make me swing from a rope,” he said with a grim expression, “So I don't have much choice.”

  “There's something else,” Sally said tentatively.

  Laramie waited for her to continue.

  “I heard two of them talking last night while you were asleep. They were talking about …..,” Sally paused to gather herself, “Blackie Harbin shot Lonesome. I'm so sorry Laramie, he shot him dead.”

  The news hit him like a locomotive. The physical blows that he'd received the night before did not hurt the way this did. He felt an overwhelming sadness at the loss of his friend, quickly followed by a huge sense of guilt. If he hadn't gone there with the pursuers on his trail, the old man would still be alive.

  Sally watched as Laramie's face changed. She could see it in his eyes first, as the anger started to take hold. His gaze became like ice and then his jaw set firm as he fought to contain his rage.

  “Stay safe,” he said through gritted teeth, “I'll come for you. You can count on that. And when I do, I'm goin' to kill that black hearted son of a bitch.”

  When Cato came for Sally, she was reluctant to stand as he ordered her to. She looked to Laramie for help, the fear in her eyes evident. Laramie nodded to her and mouthed the words, “I'm coming.”

  It was a lot of faith to put in one man, virtually a stranger to her, who was at this point, a captive himself, but something in his eyes, perhaps a great determination, seemed to calm her. Sally stood and went with Cato to the horses, where he helped her up onto one of them.

  Blackie Harbin approached and stood in front of Laramie, “You know it's a shame it has to be this way Davis. Me personally, I would have liked to find out who was faster, but I guess we already know that anyway.”

  Laramie said coolly, “How about you untie me and we find out.”

  Harbin shook his head, “Noooo. That ain't goin' to happen. You see I promised the Sheriff, him and the Judge could have you.”

  “Scared Blackie?” Laramie challenged.

  There was a small flash of anger in the outlaw's eyes as the barb hit a nerve, but Blackie, seemingly unperturbed, said “No, can't say as I am.”

  The conversation dried up for a moment before Harbin said, “Well I guess this is goodbye then.”

  “I'll be seein' you Blackie,” Laramie said with a hard edge to his voice.

  Harbin looked at him quizzically and for a brief moment, the gunfighter thought there was a hint of fear in his eyes. It was a fleeting thing, and Harbin turned away and walked over to the horses.

  Five minutes later Laramie watched the outlaws ride out, and Sally Richards with them.

  *

  “Okay killer, your turn,” said the sheriff of Rock Springs as he gave Laramie a nudge with his boot, “stand up and get on over to your horse.”

  Laramie struggled to his feet, his efforts caused fresh streaks of pain to shoot through his body. He shuffled over to where Bo was tethered, stood and waited.

  “What is the problem?” asked the Sheriff.

  “How do you expect me to get on my horse with my hands tied behind my back? Are you goin' to lift me?”


  Jeb Coltrain mumbled in frustration. He walked behind Laramie and untied the rawhide from the gunfighter's wrists.

  The burning sensation was instant as the circulation returned. Laramie winced as he tried to rub the pain away.

  Jeb Coltrain grew impatient, “Come on Davis, stop dawdlin'. Get on your horse and hurry it up.”

  Once more, pain screamed through his side as he used the bruised muscles of his battered body. He threw his leg over and sat up straight in the saddle.

  “Grab the saddle horn,” the sheriff ordered.

  Laramie did as instructed, the rawhide was wrapped around and his hands were fastened to the pommel.

  “Why did you let Harbin shoot the old man?” Laramie asked flatly.

  The sheriff was about to walk away but paused and looked up at the gunfighter, “I didn't let him shoot the old feller. I didn't even know he was goin' to do it until after the fact. Why? What was he to you?”

  Laramie's eyes were emotionless, “He was my friend.”

  Coltrain shrugged apathetically, “Well, your friend became an outlaw the moment he helped a wanted killer on the run from the law. I guess he got what was comin' to him.”

  Laramie churned inside.

  Coltrain waited for a reaction, but when one failed to emerge, he turned and walked away. He climbed into his own saddle and lead the small column out towards Rock Springs and Laramie's date with a hang rope.

  Chapter 9

  Laramie felt uneasy. His chance of escape was near, but that opportunity, if taken, might also get him killed. It was not long into the afternoon and the mounted warriors who silently shadowed them had been there for the last two hours that he'd been aware of. They had stayed invisible for the most part, a flicker of movement further back in the forest which had caught his eye, the only thing that had given them away. He seemed to be the only one who knew they weren't alone.

  The gunfighter couldn't understand how the Coltrains had not discovered that the Blackfeet were there. In country like this, acute awareness of your surroundings was essential for survival. Indians, wolves, mountain lions and grizzlies were prevalent throughout this region. Of all the things in the wilderness that could kill them, the Indians were their immediate threat.

  Bo pricked his ears then tossed his head about. Even he knew they were there.

  “Whoa boy,” Laramie soothed the big appaloosa, “I know they're there.”

  Shell Coltrain hipped in the saddle and snapped.“What was that killer?”

  “The horse said you stink and I agreed.”

  “Laugh it up while you can Davis, we'll see who's laughing when you're on the gallows.”

  “Knock it off back there,” Jeb Coltrain yelled over his shoulder.

  The Sheriff rode in front of Laramie, along with Jim Clancy, and Shell Coltrain. Behind the gunfighter came the Judge, Clay Adams and Orson Blake. They had taken a different path along the valley where the river bisected the mountains, instead of going back over the ridge and past Lonesome's spread.

  The posse was about to go through the narrow pass and had just entered a stand of spruce when there was a soft hiss in the air. An arrow sliced its way through Jim Clancy's throat, the shaft still vibrating, its flint head erupted on the other side, and blood dripped from its sharp point. He opened his mouth to scream but emitted only a gargled sound, followed by a rush of deep crimson which ran down his chin.

  Another arrow streaked out of the nearby trees and punched into his chest. This one ended his suffering and he fell from his horse to the ground with a thud.

  “Indians!” shouted the Judge, “They've got Jim.”

  Hot on the heels of the Judge's cry, rifle fire opened up from behind them. Lead buzzed around the rider's heads like angry hornets. A cry behind Laramie told him that someone else was hit. He looked around and saw the young cow hand, Clay Adams slumped over his saddle horn.

  The next one down was Orson Blake. His head appeared to explode as a heavy calibre bullet from an old Spencer carbine, hit him in the temple and blew out a fist sized hole as it exited. Blake toppled sideways from his horse.

  Suddenly, ten Blackfoot warriors thundered out of the trees on horse back, the air filled with their blood curdling war cries.

  Jeb Coltrain pulled his pistol and fired three shots at the oncoming horde, two went wild and the third pitched a brave from the back of his pony. Next to the Sheriff, Shell also loosed shots at the bare chested horsemen.

  The Judge took one look at the charging Indians and spurred his mount hard and bolted past Laramie. Jeb Coltrain called out as his brother's horse narrowly missed his own, but the fleeing man didn't slow. He galloped hard along the trail, clods of damp earth flicked into the air by flying hooves as he went.

  Clay Adams, though grievously wounded, found the strength to get his horse moving and followed the Judge on his wild ride. He swayed in the saddle, both hands locked onto the pommel in a vice like grip.

  “God damn it!” cursed Jeb Coltrain and fired off another two shots, “Let's go!”

  Shell followed close behind as the Sheriff hauled round on the reins and kicked his horse into a gallop.

  It was now or never. Using pressure through his legs, Laramie sent a message to the appaloosa who responded instantly. Bo veered off the trail and plunged into the forest. He galloped sure footed across the uneven ground, dodging around rocks and trees.

  A low branch administered a stinging flick across Laramie's face and immediately raised an angry welt. The blow made his eyes water and he tried to blink the tears away. War cries from his pursuers became louder as they closed the gap.

  Laramie cast a glance back over his shoulder and saw three Blackfeet, with painted faces, as they tried hard to ride him down. He gave Bo a small kick and the appaloosa found more speed as he broke out into a small, half acre clearing, the other side of which was a fifty foot high sheer rock wall.

  “Ahh hell,” Laramie cursed aloud.

  His choices were either left or right? A quick glance in both directions made him none the wiser.

  Bo had covered the ground quickly and the rock wall loomed large and grey in front of them. Left or Right?

  Damn it, Laramie choose! He chose left and knew immediately that it was a mistake.

  An Indian, riding what was known as a Buffalo Horse, cannoned into Bo, and caused the big horse to go down and spill Laramie from the saddle. Unharmed, Bo was quick to regain his feet and waited for the gunfighter to climb back aboard.

  A little shaken, Laramie struggled to his feet only to crash back to the ground with a Blackfoot warrior on top of him. Air rushed from his lungs when he fell and he gasped for breath as the Indian's weight lay heavy on his chest.

  Laramie fought hard against the semi naked man, the smell of bear grease filled his nostrils. They rolled about, two gladiators in a fight to the death. The life and death struggle finished when Laramie felt something sharp prick the skin of his neck and he froze. The Indian had a razor sharp knife to his throat.

  The gunfighter lay there and looked up into the black, hate filled eyes of the warrior. Both men breathed heavily from their exertions.

  “If you try to fight, I will kill you,” the Blackfoot hissed.

  *

  “God damn it Jeb, you let the murdering son of a bitch get away!” Judge Zebulon Coltrain raged at his brother.

  “In case you didn't notice brother,” the Sheriff snarled back, “I was kinda busy!”

  The remnants of the posse had run for five miles after they'd lost the war party before a halt was called. Jim Clancy and Orson Blake had been lost in the bloody exchange. Clay Adams still clung to his saddle, the lower half of his body covered in blood. Shell Coltrain had a shallow graze from a bullet on his upper arm and the Sheriff's horse sported a laceration across its rump.

  The Judge however, was unharmed and full of anger at the loss of his son's killer, “You should have made sure that he was with you. He was your responsibility, you're the law.”

  The Jud
ge paused before he continued his tirade, his voice ratcheted up a notch, “And now we have to go back there and get him, all because you could not do your job!”

  “How would you know what I was or wasn't doin' Judge. You was so busy runnin' like a damned rabbit, I'm surprised we caught up to you.”

  “My horse bolted when the shooting started,” the Judge spluttered in his defence, “It took me all my time to get it stopped.”

  Shell interrupted them, “We need to get Clay to a doc. He's hurt real bad.”

  “The hell we do!” the Judge said with finality, “He can come with us or he can stay here, but we don't leave these mountains without Jeremiah's murderer.”

  Jeb Coltrain climbed off his horse and walked over to Clay Adams, “How are you doin' Clay?”

  Clay lifted his head and the Sheriff could easily see that the young cowboy was in a bad way. His face was pale and sweat soaked. Pain filled his eyes, “I hurt bad Sheriff. My insides are on fire.”

  Jeb lifted his hand and peeled back the blood soaked flap of Clay's jacket. The bullet had gone in just above his buckle. He shook his head, “It's not good Clay but don't worry, we'll get you to a doctor.”

  “Damn you, we don't have time!” the Judge snarled.

  Before anyone could stop him, Judge Zebulon Coltrain drew his Webley revolver and shot Clay Adams twice in the chest, “There, he's been tended to. Now come on, let's ride.”

  The posse was down to three.

  *

  It was late in the day and the sun sat just above the jagged peaks of the snow capped mountains when the Blackfeet arrived back at Black Elk's camp. They had tied Laramie behind a horse and forced him to walk all the way. Bo was led behind by another warrior who had learned the hard way that the big appaloosa didn't take kindly to strangers.

  The camp was on the bank of a wide creek, with crystal clear water that flowed swiftly over a rocky bottom of rounded stones. There were somewhere in the vicinity of forty teepees scattered around the site and the small community turned out to watch as Laramie was paraded through it.