High Valley Manhunt: Laramie Davies #1 (8 page)

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.

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
Judge 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.

The
teepees were constructed with a four main pole frame work, with
another dozen or more laid against these to complete the skeleton of
the structure. All were lashed firmly into place before the hides
were stretched over it and affixed.

They
stopped outside a large teepee located near the centre of the
encampment. A tall warrior stepped through the open flap and stared
with contempt at the white prisoner. His skin was a deep bronze
colour and his muscles rippled when he moved. His long, black hair
was held off his face by a decorated headband and he wore deerskin
leggings and a loin cloth. A necklace adorned with bear claws were
testament to his bravery.

The
Blackfoot brave who'd brought Laramie into camp spoke to this new
warrior in a low voice. Laramie could not hear what was said but
could guess that he was the subject of the conversation.

The
Indian turned his attention back to Laramie and asked in heavily
accented English, “Why are you in our land white man?”

“Your
land? The last I heard the Blackfoot tribe were people of the
plains.”

“It
is not by choice we are here,” the Indian stated.

“Then
it seems we have something in common.”

The
warrior's dark eyes glittered, “You have nothing in common with
Black Elk or my people.”

Laramie
shrugged, “More than you think.”

Black
Elk remained silent.

Laramie
knew that he would only get one chance to be able to convince Black
Elk that Laramie alive was better than him dead.

“I
know that you seek the men who killed your brother and his woman.”

“How
do you know this?” Black Elk hissed.

“Because
I am after the same men,” Laramie explained.

Black
Elk motioned the brave forward who'd brought the gunfighter into
camp. The two conversed for a short moment before the Blackfoot chief
addressed Laramie.

“You
were with the men who wore the shiny badges. The ones who killed my
warriors at the place where the wagons change horses.”

“Did
he also tell you that my hands were tied?” Laramie asked.

Black
Elk nodded, “Why?”

“I
killed a man. He was no good and wanted to steal my horse.”

“If
what you say is true, why should I believe you?” the chief
asked sceptically.

“The
men you seek killed my friend, the old man who lived alone in the
valley of the Ksisk-staki, the beaver.”

Black
Elk nodded to a couple of his braves and they turned and ran off.

“You
speak our language,” observed the Blackfoot chief.

Laramie
nodded, “I picked up a little in my travels.”

“Tell
me more about these men you speak of and then I will decide what to
do with you.”

Laramie
noticed that Black Elk's hostility had waned some but the suspicion
was still present. At least he was still alive, which was the main
thing.

“They
are lead by a man called Blackie Harbin. He is a wanted killer by the
white man's law. There is a young one with him called Benny, he's
mean even though he's a kid. Two others ride with him, a man called
Cato and a Crow, he's called Lone Wolf. The others are dead.”

“Do
you know where they have gone?” Black Elk asked expectantly.

Laramie
nodded, “I think so.”

“Then
you will tell me now,” the chief snapped.

The
gunfighter shook his head, “No, but I will take you.”

Black
Elk was annoyed with his answer and it showed. He stepped forward
swiftly and took out a wickedly sharp knife from the sheath at his
narrow waist. He placed the knife at Laramie's throat, “You
will tell me white man or you will be made speak, the choice is
yours.”

Laramie
pushed it just a little further, “After I tell you, I go with
you.”

“Why,
because he killed your friend?”

“There
is another reason,” the gunfighter confessed.

“What
is it?” asked the chief as he withdrew the knife.

“There
is a woman with the gang,” Laramie told Black Elk, “she
was on the stage the gang stopped. I took her away from them but now
they have her back. The last thing I told her was that I was goin' to
come get her.”

He
waited for the Indian to digest the information he'd been given.

Black
Elk nodded, “Tell me where.”