The Crimson Trail

by Eric Red

  Then out of the corner of his eye, Earl saw movement in the basin below. Someone waving. Ignoring them, returning his gaze forward, he kept clenching the handles of the triggering mechanism and shooting ceaselessly into the darkness on the opposite side of the canyon, ammo belts rattling through the breech so he couldn’t hear anything, the Gatling gun stitching a line of sparking ricochets in the darkness of the hill until a sudden earth-shaking boom, blinding flash of TNT, and eruption of rocks and geysers of dirt when another stick of dynamite detonated.

  The shock wave of the blast knocked Earl Moore back and he lost his footing, landing on his ass. Cursing, he resumed blasting away, laying down fields of fire onto the hill, determined to kill the dynamite-happy son of a bitch if it was the last thing he ever did. And as he wasted another five hundred rounds of ammunition and the brass cartridge empties spewed in a glittering stream from the machine gun clattering in piles ankle-deep by his boots, Earl Moore still did not see the charging longhorns bearing down on him.

  This couldn’t be happening! Not to him! Unable to believe his eyes, Cole Starborough stood down in the basin and bore witness to his own ruin. It all was unfolding right in front of him. He knew exactly what was happening, how his posse was being tricked, yet was helpless to fix it. In horror, he saw the inexorable approach of the string of cattle up the goat trail closing in on Earl Moore firing the Gatling gun, crouched directly in the path of the horns. Cole screamed at the top of his lungs, waving his arms from below, trying to warn Earl to look over his shoulder, but couldn’t get his attention. “Look behind you! Behind you!”

  If the cows got past the machine gun nest, it was clear open trail and nothing stood in the way of the cattle’s escape.

  Finally Moore saw Cole.

  Saw him pointing behind you!

  He saw the cows.

  Earl Moore had good reflexes. With seconds to spare, he swung the huge Gatling gun with all his strength around on its tripod chassis, throwing his body weight behind the breech, jamming in the fresh ammo belt and engaging the bolt as the long cylindrical rotating barrel swept a wide arc a full 180 degrees to face the horde of longhorns an instant too late, for as Earl’s hands closed on the triggers, the first of those curved horns went through his head and tore his hands off the gun he never got a chance to fire.

  Below, Cole’s mouth gaped, witnessing the jaw-dropping carnage. Earl turned the Gatling gun around when the entire herd was on top of him and it looked like the man just exploded, hit by all those horns, and what they carried away wasn’t much to speak of.

  The machine gun nest was completely obliterated by the surging steers. The Gatling gun got hit by the cows and was knocked over the edge. Cole watched it fall, choked with emotion, his magnificent piece of war machinery dropping down the steep cliff with such grandeur in its descent, Starborough wanted to salute. He was relieved to see the heavy machine gun finally hit the ground in one piece. Starborough had bigger problems than repairing a Gatling gun.

  The cows were free. The great herd massed in a steady streaming procession up the trail over the top of the ridge out of the basin, and from there to the open range and freedom. The wranglers of the outfit drove their steers like virtuosos, waving their hats, whooping and hollering and laughing! The henchman hated those men, he really did. The last of the string of cattle escaped in a train of horns, hooves, heads, and haunches; all that beef had slipped through Cole Starborough’s fingers, and he was powerless to stop them so he just sat down on the ground and put his face in his hands. When his boss heard this it was not going to end well for him.

  At least he didn’t have to tell Calhoun any of his steers died.

  Cole didn’t see any dead cows.

  He hadn’t lost a single cow.

  He had lost all of them.

  CHAPTER 23

  They were free.

  Dawn was just breaking as Joe Noose, Laura Holdridge, Curly Brubaker, Billy Barlow, Frank Leadbetter, Joe Idaho, and Rowdy Maddox rode the herd to freedom. They were all whooping and hollering and cheering as they drove the cattle in a thundering charge across the open plain, riding their horses and running the herd, the wind in their faces, heading straight into the glorious fireball of the sun that rose heroically across the horizon in the east.

  Joe Noose had retrieved his Stetson before departing the canyon but wasn’t wearing it now. Waving their hats, the jubilant cries of the wranglers could be heard over the clamor of the hooves and even the sound of Joe and Laura’s own cheering voices because the cattlewoman and bounty hunter were hollering just as loud; everyone’s spirits soared, pumped with adrenaline from their spectacular escape they’d be telling their grandkids about... “We did it! We did it! . . . Yeeeee-aaaahhhhh! . . . We kicked their asses! . . . Got every damn cow!” Joe was galloping Copper alongside Laura’s horse, with her proud figure tall in the saddle. When he looked over and saw her brave, hardy, beautiful face framed in golden light and she looked back at him, an invincible sense of immortality passed between them, a feeling that nothing could stop them and they were going to live forever.

  It sure was a great feeling, but Noose being Noose, he looked back over his shoulder at the canyon they had just escaped from, where the posse were encamped, just to be safe. Never look back, something might be gaining on you. The atoll of rock was miles behind them now, with no sign they were being followed. The lingering grim cloud of gun and dynamite smoke hung over the canyon basin like doom, a reminder just how badly Cole Starborough and his forces had been defeated last night.

  The longhorns and horses had pushed on through darkness those first miles, trusting the cows to find their way, but as the sun lifted a vast wall of light passed over the sprawling landscape that peeled away the darkness like a wrapper so the trail became visible. Once day broke, the five hundred head of steer and the capable, indefatigable drivers who drove them had moved at a clip, skipping meals, just pushing forward through the empty badlands. They had a lot of ground to cover to make up for lost time.

  The wide-open plains were so barren and desolate it was easy for Joe to see how this part of eastern Wyoming earned its nickname the Big Empty. Nothing for mile after mile as far as you could see. Sometime late in the afternoon, Noose saw far to the north a funnel of dust a few miles away; it could have been a small tornado, a dust storm, or a group of horses and riders at full gallop, like a posse. The clouds of dust were too far away to tell, but Joe didn’t like that it was moving in a west to east direction, coming from behind the cattle drive and moving on ahead, overtaking the herd and dispersing into the distance in a diaspora of settling dust.

  Had Cole Starborough regrouped his forces and ridden ahead to lie in wait and ambush the outfit somewhere up ahead at a time and place of his choosing for a final showdown in the Big Empty?

  Joe Noose wasn’t certain, but did know what kind of man Calhoun’s henchman was: a man who didn’t quit. The bounty hunter knew this because he understood his foe, who in some respects reminded him of himself.

  In the driver’s seat on the bench of her wagon, Laura tied off the reins and opened the map, studying it until she had their approximate position in relation to their destination.

  Cheyenne lay ninety-eight miles ahead.

  Four days’ ride.

  It was Friday.

  The date—what was the damn date?

  The tenth of February. Yes, she was sure of it.

  The auction was February sixteenth.

  Four days to get there.

  There was a chance, the narrowest hope, that if they got lucky, the outfit could still make it to Cheyenne in time to get the cattle to auction.

  If nothing went wrong.

  * * *

  The Union Pacific Railroad steam train crossed northwest over the Texas border into eastern Colorado on its way past Denver toward its final destination, Cheyenne, Wyoming. The grinding driving wheels of the huge locomotive drove the rolling stock down the line, towing a string of nine coaches and a brake wagon in clam
oring procession throughout the night. The steam engine’s exhaust belched dirty fumes into the sky, smoke and hot cinders spewing from its stack, scattering in the desert air. The tympani of the rusty wheels beat a percussive syncopation on the rail bed as the train rattled and swayed its way along the tracks. The train consisted of eight coaches. On the caboose, heavily armed Pinkerton detectives kept watch on the platform and performed regular foot patrols of the entire train; the agency had been hired for security because the passengers on this trip were the wealthiest and most powerful citizens of the Old West. The railroad was taking them all to the annual cattlemen’s auction in Cheyenne, as it did every year.

  The entire train was privately reserved by the six cattle barons who made up the cartel of the Cattlemen’s Association. Each tycoon had an entire private car allocated to himself and his associates for his own personal use. The ninth car was the horse truck, where the cattlemen stabled their best mounts they took with them on the trip. The eighth coach was the restaurant car, its kitchen staffed with a chef imported from Paris. The seventh car was the club car, a richly appointed custom coach that inside was like a salon with opulent furnishings from plush suede leather couches and red velvet cushioned chairs to a full-length bar with a brass rail. The light fixtures holding the gas lamps were sterling silver. It was the ultimate in luxurious comfort for the men for whom price was no object and no expense ever spared.

  The air was filled with cigar smoke and the smell of good aged bourbon. Five cattle barons stood it the car, being served by the bartender. They all wore expensive suits, vests, ties, and cowboy boots, and each sported well-groomed beards and mustaches. The beef tycoons all owned major herds on major spreads, coming from across the western states as far west as California and as far east as Nebraska, boarding the privately reserved steam train as it passed through their states.

  The door opened and Crispin Calhoun entered the car coming from the back of the train. He was followed by a quiet armed operative, who joined the bodyguards for the other men standing against the walls. Calhoun was dressed in a black suit, black shirt with red roses, fine cowboy boots—with lifts to raise his height—and solid gold roweled Mexican spurs. He had on an elegant black leather jacket with tassels tailored from the finest newborn calfskin. Twin solid gold-plated pearl-handled Colt revolvers were slung in his holsters. The cattle baron wore a huge black Stetson, and below the brim his countenance was dark and intense. Among the rest of the cattlemen he called his peers, Calhoun was slightest of stature but carried about him a formidable sense of mortal threat, a look of violence around the eye that showed he was capable of anything. The other cattle barons all knew he was half-crazy, but his rise to the top of the cattle business in just a few years had earned the respect of his peers. For this cartel, the strong eat the weak, and the only thing a cattleman respects is strength. It was no secret that Crispin Calhoun killed a lot of men to steal their herds building his own empire, but the other five cattle barons in the club car didn’t hold it against him; they couldn’t—after all, they all had murdered rivals to steal livestock and land or to simply eliminate the competition. It was all part of being a cattleman.

  The five cattlemen standing at the bar with boots on the brass rail welcomed Crispin Calhoun, who gave them a big grin and shook hands vigorously with the other members of the Cattlemen’s Association.

  “Gentlemen!” he said in his sibilant voice with a susurration of the vowels. “Good to see you, boys. The next round is on me. Bartender, drinks all around.”

  Suddenly came a shriek of steam whistle, a graunching of locking steam brakes and the train began to slow. Taking their drinks with them, the cattle barons walked out on the platform to see what the holdup was and looked toward the front of the railroad.

  The locomotive was pulled up alongside a fifty-foot-high wooden water tower on a scaffolding. A member of the driving crew, a fireman in sooty overalls, stepped off the locomotive and stood on the ladder, feeding a long metal pipe from the circular water vat into the lip of the boiler on the nose of the locomotive. Water flooded down the pipe into the steam engine, refueling it for the rest of the long trip to Cheyenne. The burning coal in the locomotive firebox boiled the water that generated the huge amount of steam used to drive the giant wheels of the hundred-ton train.

  Shortly, the fireman acknowledged the engineer with a wave to indicate the train was fueled. Disengaging the pipe from the nose of the engine, he cranked it on a chain back up into the tower, then swung off the scaffolding onto the footplate of the doorway to the engine.

  A piercing blast of the train whistle split the air, followed by loud hisses of steam, clanks of unlocking brakes, and mechanical graunching as the engine was throttled. The steel-on-steel of wheels on rails slowly ground and the train lurched into motion. The locomotive’s driving wheels slipped once, twice, three times, then they began to bite, and the train started back up the tracks, slowly at first, then picking up speed.

  The cattle cartel repaired back to the bar inside the club coach, talking shop. During the discussion, as he sipped his whiskey, Crispin Calhoun gave a casual glance to the blackboard on the wall of the train car. He was familiar with it because the cattle barons, all betting men, routinely used the board to record gambling wagers on everything involving the element of chance from sports to political campaigns to cattle prices.

  Calhoun’s brows furrowed and jaw tightened when he recognized the word “Bar H” and the name “Laura Holdridge” written on the board in chalk. There were numbers indicating gambling odds chalked beside her name, and she had been given ten-to-one odds. His colleagues had already placed bets. The vein in his forehead began to throb as blood rushed to his face. He was very angry that his peers in the Cattlemen’s Association would dare show him the disrespect to bet on that woman showing him up.

  “Why is the widow Holdridge on our betting board?” Calhoun asked, controlling his rage.

  “We’re betting on the chances of Sam Holdridge’s wife getting her five hundred steers to Cheyenne,” Sherman Rutledge said, puffing cigar smoke. “Right now, we give it ten-to-one odds she makes it.”

  “The Bar H herd will never make it to Cheyenne, mark my words.” Calhoun glowered.

  “What you got against Sam’s wife anyway, Calhoun?” Cyrus McCullough inquired, curious about the malevolent hatred radiating off his counterpart on the subject of the woman. “Her ranch is small but it has a proud name in the cattle ranching business, and her husband was one of us.”

  “What do I have against the widow Holdridge? She wears a skirt.” Crispin Calhoun took a long sip of whiskey, leaned on his boot on the brass tail, leveling a baleful gaze down the bar at his colleagues. “The cattle business is man’s business. Who does this uppity woman think she is, thinking she can be one of us, sit at our table, behave like our equal, join our Cattlemen’s Association? Over my dead body, I say. The next thing she’d want is the right to vote.”

  There was laughter all around, but Sherman Rutledge wouldn’t let it go; he didn’t like Calhoun, even if the others did. “What you have against that lady is she turned down your offer to buy her ranch and livestock. Maybe that wasn’t all she turned down, Calhoun.” Rutledge rolled his cigar in his fingers and winked at the other tycoons. “Clearly Sam’s wife wasn’t impressed or intimidated by you. Maybe you’re not man enough for her.”

  Calhoun’s eyes went dead. Being made fun of made him pathological, and when he spoke his words were flat. “The widow Holdridge hasn’t got a chance in hell of getting her steers to Cheyenne. I have it on excellent authority that the Bar H Ranch is already out of business.”

  Rutledge laughed. “They say everything is big in Texas including their mouths. Put your money where your mouth is, Calhoun. Money talks, bullshit walks. The bet is ten to one.”

  “Ten to one is a sucker’s bet.”

  “Back up your big words. Put skin in the game.”

  “I’ll show you skin.” Rearing up straight, Calhoun swung his ar
m and slammed his little fist down on the bar, eyes glittering madly. “I will see your ten-to-one . . .” His lips drew back in a rictus grin. “And raise you ten thousand to one. I give you ten-thousand-to-one odds she doesn’t make it.” With a boozy roar of approval, the other beef tycoons clapped and applauded at the Texas cattle baron’s crazed audacity, for cattlemen always enjoyed bold displays of bravado. Calhoun arrogantly eyeballed his fellow cattle barons. “There are exactly ten thousand and sixty-two steers on my ranch in Amarillo. I bet my entire Amarillo herd that Holdridge bitch doesn’t get to Cheyenne.”

  His colleagues whistled. “In time for the auction?” Cyrus McCullough asked.

  “At all.”

  Rutledge leaned back and puffed his cigar, did some quick math. “So let us get this straight, Calhoun. We bet one steer of ours, against ten thousand of yours? Laura Holdridge doesn’t get her cows to Cheyenne, we each have to pay you one steer. She does get her cows to Cheyenne in time for the auction, you have to pay us ten thousand head of cattle, that we’d all divvy up. That is the bet you’re proposing.”

  “Correct.” Calhoun savored the doubting looks the other cattlemen now exchanged regarding Laura Holdridge’s fate at this point. A few moments ago, she had been something to them, now she was nothing. If Crispin Calhoun was that confident ...