The Crimson Trail

by Eric Red

  Brubaker was hit in the leg as he drew his Henry rifle out of his saddle scabbard now soaked in his blood, crying out in pain as he dropped the reins and used both arms to shoulder his weapon and return fire into the sun-blasted sky.

  Leadbetter’s horse took a bullet in the shoulder and threw its head back and bellowed, prancing in a death dance on unsteady legs between the moving cattle. Frank tried to control his falling horse even as he fired his pistol at the top of the canyon, hoping to hit something, anything.

  Joe took the reins in his teeth, freeing his left hand to draw his second pistol and straightened his arms above his head, triggering his Colts.

  A body fell shrieking from top of the cliff, duster flapping, a fountain of blood spurting from his chest, dropping in the midst of the cattle, the sounds of bones being crushed beneath hooves satisfying to the enraged Noose.

  The gorge was a sonic echo chamber that amplified the gunfire into cacophonic din reverberating deafeningly. The bawling of the alarmed cattle added to the ear-splitting din.

  Many of the rounds struck the canyon walls in loud ricks and flashes of sparks, the slugs caroming back and forth off each side in buzzing zigzags of deadly ricochets. The cowpunchers tried to duck them as they returned fire but couldn’t see anything above aiming up into the blinding sun directly overhead. Clouds of dust and gun smoke combined with the haze of dirt kicked up by the cows to create a cloaking fog of detritus, immediately reducing visibility in the chasm.

  Laura!

  In a panic, Joe looked ahead to see the cattlewoman turned in her saddle ahead, her face a mask of fear, yelling back at him words he couldn’t hear amidst all the gunfire and melee, gesturing stubbornly at the cattle with her hands, trying to tell Noose something, and he could just read her lips.

  Laura was screaming back at Noose. “He won’t shoot the cattle!”

  “Like hell he won’t!” Joe shouted back.

  She bellowed at him, her blazing eyes ferocious. “Starborough won’t kill a cow! Calhoun’s orders! That’s how we get out of this! Tell the boys to use the cattle for cover! Ride the cattle!”

  Now Joe understood.

  Swiveling in the saddle as he fired his guns upwards, Noose yelled at the top of his lungs back at the men, “Get on the cattle! Ride the steers!”

  It wasn’t like the rovers had much choice—the steers had been panicked by the loud reverberating gunfire and flying bullets and wanted to get out of the boxed-in enclosure as fast as possible, accelerating with dreadful force. Lowering their horns, the lowing cattle bulldozed through the horses ahead of their skulls, impaling the mares and geldings on their horns, causing the whinnying bleeding steeds to collapse in gushes of gore, getting trampled beneath the pounding hooves of the quickening herd.

  The wranglers saw it coming and owning quick reflexes, did the only thing they could, jumping off of the saddles of their dying horses and grabbing on to the backs or horns of the nearest cow, holding on for dear life.

  A bloody flower of blood bloomed on Billy Barlow’s chest as he was shot in the heart. The next round blew his jaw clean off his face in a gory shower of bone and teeth. His eyes rolled up in their sockets in what was left of his head and he fell over in his saddle and off his horse. Joe winced as he heard the man’s body squashed under the hooves of the charging steers, a huge wall of blood spraying like an erupting geyser against the sides of the cliff.

  Noose saw Curly Brubaker, Frank Leadbetter, Joe Idaho, and Rowdy Maddox were now riding the cattle. A few managed to hang on to the big thundering herd and get shots off with their pistols at the riflemen above. But their horses were done for, the awful death screams of the horses as they got impaled and sucked under the surging cattle was tough for Joe to listen to.

  “Jump off your horse, Joe!” Laura screamed back at him.

  Like hell he would.

  Joe Noose stayed in the saddle of Copper, his best friend, having long ago decided if his stallion went, so would he. Throwing glances over his shoulder at the huge steer with its three-foot pointed horns charging after them, the bounty hunter jabbed his spurs in his horse and rode him with precision, right behind the running longhorn in front of him, guiding Copper with his legs and reins, keeping a few feet safe distance from the steer to their rear.

  Then all at once, he was out of the gorge into the open ravine surrounded by huge boulders, seeing the deep draw gouged in the rocks on the left. It would provide cover. Laura Holdridge had already leaped out of her saddle and ducked into the draw, gesturing to Noose to follow her lead.

  Knowing Copper was safe, Joe swung out of the saddle, hit the ground on his boots, and rolled into the draw, letting his horse ride on.

  The cattle thundered past in a fearsome train of hooves and cow flesh, the horns and faces of some covered with the blood of the trampled, gored horses left behind in the gorge. The sledgehammer pounding of thousands of hooves shook the ground.

  On top of the cliff, Cole Starborough saw the wranglers on top of the charging cows, clinging on to the animals, and lowered his rifle, knowing he no longer had a clear shot at any of them without risking killing a steer while they were down in the gun-smoke-filled narrow gorge.

  He waved his arms to his men to stop shooting. “Cease fire! Don’t shoot the cows!”

  Beside Starborough, one of his posse men took a bullet in the eye, splattering Cole with blood, and fell forward off the cliff, dropping head over heels a hundred feet down and disappearing from view beneath the rushing herd of cows. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, the gentleman henchman used his handkerchief to wipe the blood from his tailored shirt and he gestured to his line of riflemen to follow his lead.

  “Change positions! Shoot ’em when they come out of the gorge and you have clear shots!”

  The posse men mustered across the roof of the canyon to where it opened below into the deep crevice of the rock-strewn ravine.

  “You two with me!” Cole gestured to two gunmen who followed Starborough as he ran over to the war wagon parked on the trailhead that led to the top of the cliff. There, the henchman tore open the steel-plated doors and threw open the lid of the custom case containing the Gatling gun. “Get this set up!” He grinned viciously, grabbing an armful of .50 caliber ammo belts as his men lifted the hundred-pound machine gun and tripod from the case. Struggling under the weight, the operatives carried it to the end of the cliff overlooking the ravine where their boss directed them to place it and quickly set it up, moving like a well-oiled machine as they had been trained.

  A few minor repairs on the previous day had restored the Gatling gun to pristine working order, as Cole had demonstrated by shooting buzzards and obliterating them out of the sky. Now he was going to get a chance to use it on something without feathers.

  Down in the draw, peering over the edge of the rocks, Joe and Laura saw Brubaker clinging for his life riding an approaching steer. “Curly!” they yelled, gesturing madly with their arms. He saw them just in time and rolled off the back of the cow in a none-too-graceful dismount, landing in a messy heap inside the draw and letting out a scream of pain. His wounded leg was bleeding like hell.

  And the others came, Leadbetter, Idaho, and Maddox, riding the cattle. When Noose and Laura saw them, they got their attention with whistles and cries and hand gestures, and each of the surviving wranglers dove off the cows into the draw. The outfit, what was left of them, huddled together, reloading their guns as Laura used her kerchief to tie a tourniquet around Curly’s leg.

  Joe, pistols at the ready, chanced a peek over the edge of the draw up at the top of the cliffs a hundred feet across the ravine. There was a lot of movement. He could see the figures of Cole Starborough’s posse repositioning themselves, which explained the brief cessation in gunfire, but now they had commenced shooting again. The bullets were slamming against the boulders shielding the draw, making it grimly clear the riflemen saw where the outfit had taken cover down below. The cattle had moved on with the rest of the horses deeper into the
ravine where it opened up, so this time there were no cows getting in the way of the posse’s shots and making them hold their fire. It was just the six people hiding in the draw, protected by a few rocks and boulders.

  Joe figured given their bunkered position, the outfit might be able to hold out, maybe, if they used their limited ammo prudently, just maybe . . .

  And then above, the gargantuan Gatling gun suddenly erupted, raining hellfire on the draw as hundreds of heavy caliber rounds bombarded the rocks the outfit hid behind, and all hope was lost. Noose knew they wouldn’t be able to hold out. Not for very long being pounded by a weapon of that magnitude. It kept firing and firing a relentless, ceaseless onslaught of bullets that exploded and ricocheted all around the boulders and rocks, and if the slugs didn’t kill them, sooner or later the ricks would.

  Noose knew he and the outfit were cornered, wounded, exhausted, and overwhelmed, and there was only one way out of this.

  He had to take out that gun.

  “Cover me!”

  A fusillade of bullets from above exploded against the draw they were hiding inside, showering them with stinging shrapnel of splintered granite chips. Joe shot Curly and Laura and the others whose eyes were locked on him a wait for it glance, his body coiled to leap into action, clenching his six-guns.

  After the latest volley of rounds ended, there was a break in the shooting from atop the cliff as the posse reloaded, and in that brief ringing silence Noose snapped, “Now!”

  The entire six surviving members of the outfit leaped up and aimed their rifles and pistols over the edge of the rocks and opened fire, unleashing a barrage of gunfire with every weapon they had, and the bounty hunter leaped up out of the draw on to the floor of the canyon. Firing a pistol in each hand one after the other, aiming blind up at the top of the cliffs, he used the wall of rounds he and his friends were unloading to make a dead run for the edge of the cliff wall and the mountainous boulders that would give him cover. It was a fifty-yard dash out in the open in the clear gunsights of the posse above, and he ran as fast as his boots would carry him, pointing his pistols upward, squeezing the triggers and blasting away. The ravine rang with deafening reports of staccato rifle and pistol shots, almost without pause coming from the guns of the outfit.

  Atop the cliff a hundred feet above, Cole Starborough caught a glimpse of Joe Noose scrambling the last few yards to the boulders and swung the barrel of the Gatling gun downward, triggering the handgrips he clenched in both fists, gritting his teeth and opening fire. Far below, the view of his enemy was instantly erased by clouds of dirt and rock and flashing ricochets kicked up by the hordes of bullets slamming into the canyon floor in firecracker flashes of sparks.

  As he ran for his life, Joe felt the ground explode all around him with the huge machine gun opening up above, splitting the air with nonstop rapid-fire discharges that rattled the walls of the canyon. Geysers of .50 caliber rounds shot up like gophers as the Gatling gun stitched a line of lead across the canyon floor. With each impact of his boots on the dirt, he felt the collision of bullets on the ground narrowly missing him by inches.

  The edge of the boulders lay ten yards away, and knowing he might not make it, Noose took a Hail Mary and dived for cover. He hit the ground hard, clenching both empty pistols in his hands, and rolled to his knees behind the shelter of the huge rock formation, slamming his back flat against it. The muffled sledgehammer pounding of machine gun fire sang out on the other side of the huge rock, and the bounty hunter exhaled mightily, knowing he had achieved momentary safety out of range of the deadly armament.

  Behind him, across the ravine, Joe saw the desperate figures of the outfit huddling inside the draw actively reloading while the rocks they hid behind were being pummeled by bullets from the posse above them. Making eye contact with the cattlewoman who was relieved to see him still breathing, the bounty hunter gave her a thumbs-up, then pointed upward. That’s where I’m going. She nodded.

  Then Joe looked up the sheer rock incline toward the top of the ravine. A hundred feet up, past ledges and outcroppings of big rocks and boulders, he could see the top of the cliff; that’s where the posse was positioned and the only way to neutralize their threat was to climb up there and shoot it out with them. And he was out of bullets, so he would need to disarm one of the posse to get something to shoot with. Noose chanced his odds and realized he had no other choice, so he made up his mind and squinted at the way up he was going to have to take—it was a long steep climb to the roof of the canyon, but the stones afforded purchase and Noose figured he could scale it if the posse didn’t blow him off the cliff first.

  The rocks provided some cover, but part of the way up he was going to be out in the open, and the gunmen would have a clear shot. The good news was the beating sun was behind the edge of the cliff now, so he wouldn’t be blinded staring straight into it.

  On his right, a hundred feet above and thirty yards to the west, Noose could just see where the Gatling gun was positioned, occupying the high ground. He recognized the duster and bowler hat of the gunner, Cole Starborough, but Joe didn’t have a clean shot.

  He was going to have to get closer—a lot closer . . .

  So Joe Noose began his ascent.

  Holstering his pistols to free up his hands, he reached up and pulled himself onto the first ledge. Scrambling over some heavy rocks, Noose jammed his boots into the nooks between the boulders and scaled hands and feet another fifteen feet almost straight up. Looking back behind him over his shoulder, Joe saw he was looking down on the bullet-riddled draw now, the outfit already out of sight. He returned his gaze upward and crawled like a lizard up the side of the cliff.

  On top of the canyon, Cole stopped firing and squinted through the smoke drifting in a fog from the twelve-barrel rotating cylinder of the barrel of the Gatling gun. He couldn’t see squat. Did he grease that big son of a bitch? He didn’t think so; if Starborough had nailed Noose with even a few .50 caliber rounds, there wouldn’t be much left of him down there. Trying to spot the shredded remains of the bounty hunter splattered all over the floor of the canyon, all the henchman could see was gun smoke. Soon it cleared.

  And Calhoun’s enforcer spat a string of profanity, knowing he had missed.

  Forty yards away, below, shielded by the mountainous boulders on the steep slope, Noose was halfway up the cliff. He climbed hand over hand, his steely eyes fixed on the next outcropping directly above him that now blocked his view of the top of the ravine.

  Gravel crumbled above and showered him with granules and he froze. A few feet over his head, Noose could hear the boots of a posse man clambering down onto the outcropping, hearing the clink of his rifle as he got into a better shooting position on the draw the outfit below took refuge in. Tossing a quick glance over his shoulder down to the bottom of the ravine, the bounty hunter could clearly see Laura was partially in view at this height and the gunman would have a clear shot at her. Above, he heard the bolt of the rifle engage.

  Noose decided to kill him and take his rifle to rearm himself.

  Joe didn’t hesitate; if he didn’t kill this man quiet and quick, the posse at the roof of the canyon would hear and pinpoint his position, not only robbing Noose of the element of surprise he needed to successfully bushwhack them, but costing his life when they opened fire and blew him clean off the side of the cliff into oblivion.

  So Noose leaped up like a pouncing tiger and made a blind grab, his fingers closing on the posse man’s boot, and pulled with all his might. The boot jerked off the outcropping and a quick shadow passed over Joe as the gunman lost his balance and plummeted headlong off the side of the canyon, his surprised cry cut short as his skull hit a boulder twenty feet below and cracked like an eggshell, his brains splattering the rocks in messy scarlet splotches as his loose-limbed body bounced off the rocks and landed in a broken heap at the base of the ravine.

  No shots came his way. The posse hadn’t heard the man’s death. Noose had to move. Hauling himself up over t
he edge of the outcrop, legs dangling, he crawled on top of the ledge. The dead man’s carbine rifle lay where the man had dropped it when he took his fatal plunge. Joe scooped the weapon up and slung the strap up over his shoulder, rising to a crouch behind a wall of rock that shielded him from view of the riflemen and the machine gunner on the opposite side of the cliff.

  Looking up again, Noose saw he was twenty-five feet from the lip of the cliff and the rocks above would make for an easy climb. But the rest of the way would be out in the open and he’d be visible to the posse, an easy target for all their guns. Glancing behind him he saw it was a long way down to certain death unless he took out those men. Taking a deep breath, Joe began climbing and hadn’t gotten three feet before the bullets started flying. He’d been spotted. Across the canyon, he saw the popping flashes of multiple gunmen shooting in his direction.

  No time to think. On sheer adrenaline, Noose unslung the carbine and charged up the rest of the steep rocky slope using the power of his legs and sense of balance as he aimed the rifle at the posse and opened fire, loosing a string of shots, his feet clambering upward, shooting at the men shooting at him, bullets exploding everywhere, one round taking a chunk of skin off his shoulder, the other nicking his ear, as still he climbed higher and higher, almost to the top, his rifle clicking empty, tossing it away and scrambling, scrabbling, pulling himself the last few feet up over the edge of the cliff and falling flat on his belly on the roof of the ravine, gasping for breath. Joe had reached the top. He’d come too far to die now.

  Noose heard resounding relentless volleys of gunfire from above and below, the posse men shooting down into the draw at the outfit firing back, and just then the bounty hunter understood that his friends must have seen him making the last leg of the climb, providing him covering fire that saved his life.

  He was alive.

  He was on top of the cliff where the posse were.

  But he was completely out of bullets. Both revolvers were empty. Nothing to reload.