High Valley Manhunt: Laramie Davies #1 (11 page)

Black
Elk related to her the news of the battle with the outlaws, how he
became wounded and that two of the outlaws had escaped.

“What
about Laramie?”

“Do
not worry, your man will be fine. He has gone after the ones who
escaped.”

“What?
Oh no,” Sally was taken aback, “he's not my man. He just
happened to be the one to risk his life and try to save me from those
outlaws.”

“He
is a good man, very strong, brave. He would make you a fine husband,”
Black Elk asserted.

Before
Sally could respond, Little Fawn came back into the teepee with a
bowl of something that looked like mud. She put it on both sides of
Black Elk's wound and bandaged him up.

When
she finished with the bandage, she spoke to Black Elk again in their
language. He frowned and looked at Sally, “The man, Laramie,
his friend the old one?”

“Yes,
Lonesome, the old mountain man that Blackie Harbin killed,”
Sally said with a puzzled frown.

“My
woman says he still alive. He here in village.”

A rush
of emotion flowed through Sally when she registered what Black Elk
had said, “Where is he? I must see him. Is he alright?”

Black
Elk tried to rise. He bit back a cry of pain as his wound protested
violently at the movement. His wife put a hand on his muscular chest
to stop him from going any further. She shook her head and the Indian
chief lay back down.

“Little
Fawn will take you to him,” he conceded.

Sally
followed the lithe woman out of the large teepee to another, smaller
one. The Indian woman lifted the hide flap aside and allowed Sally to
enter first. She let her eyes adjust to the dim light and looked
around. She saw him then, where he sat by a small fire in the centre
of the teepee.

He
looked up at her, his face looked drawn but he smiled and said, “Hell
girl, ain't you a sight for these old eyes.”

It had
taken twenty years for Mountain Pass to become what it was now. A
town that had started life as, what its name suggested, a mountain
pass. That was until late one afternoon, in the middle of summer, a
weary traveller named John Brooks, had made camp on the site.

He
laid out his bed roll on a flat piece of ground and turned in. All
night long, whenever he rolled over, a small bulge dug into his side.
After a long sleepless night, come morning he'd had enough. He packed
up the bed roll and for good measure decided to take out his
exhausted frustration on the damn rock that had caused him to lose so
much sleep.

Brooks
was about to throw it into the forest when a tiny glint, made by the
morning sunlight, flashed off the rock and caused him to explore the
thing further. What he saw made him stay at the pass for a further
two weeks.

Gold!

He
explored the bottom of the deep scars in the foot of the pass itself
and the silt that washed down from the foothills at the base of the
peaks. When he was finished, Brooks had two thousand dollars worth of
gold, in his saddle bags.

That
was the beginning of the Mountain Pass gold rush. First came the
miners and within one year, claims had sprung up all over. As the
traders slowly arrived, the town began to emerge.

In the
beginning, it was a town made of canvas tents, followed later by more
permanent wooden structures. False front stores and other shops were
in abundance along the main street and at one point, while the mines
were at their peak, there were no less than twelve saloons.

It was
a lawless time. Claim jumpers were rife and gold shipments were
stolen on a regular basis. Men died frequently by gunshot, knife
wound or sickness. It was just a regular boom town.

Then
law came and the gold dropped off. Miners left and were replaced by
ranchers who cleared some of the surrounding land to raise cattle. Of
the few claims that remained in the hills, only a couple still paid.

It was
into this now peaceful, law abiding town that the Coltrains rode.
Their horses were played out and the men were tired and hungry. They
rode along the dusty main street until they found the livery stable
with its large, red painted doors.

They
tied their horses to the hitch rail out the front and walked in
through the main double doors where they were greeted by a grizzled
looking hostler.

“What
can I do for you gents?” asked the middle aged man dressed in
bib-front overalls.

“We
want to put our horses up for a few days,” said Jeb Coltrain,
“There's three of 'em. Give them some good feed and a rub
down.”

The
hostler smiled a toothless smile and said, “Sure gents, no
problems. I got plenty of room at the moment.”

While
Jeb was talking to the hostler, Shell walked up and down the aisle
and looked into the stalls to see if he could see Laramie's horse.
When he finished, Shell looked at his kin and shook his head.

The
Sheriff fixed his gaze once more on the hostler and opened his jacket
so his badge could be clearly seen, “Have you seen a feller
ride into town at all on a big, chocolate coloured, appaloosa stud?
He'd most likely have a woman with him.”

The
hostler's eyes lingered on the badge for a moment before he answered,
“Nope Sheriff, can't say's I have. Ridin' an appaloosa you
said?”

The
Sheriff nodded, “that's right.”

The
man thought some more. Then, “Nope, no one come through here
like that. I'd remember if he did. What this feller done any ways?”

“He
murdered my...” The Judge started before the Sheriff cut him
off.

“He
killed my deputy over in Rock Springs,” Jeb Coltrain finished.

The
hostler made a silent oh with his mouth, thought about what was just
said and then, “Say are you Sheriff Coltrain from over that
way?”

“I
am.”

The
man smiled nervously, “Hell, I sure am glad it's not my trail
you're on. What's this feller's name so's I know who to look out
for?”

“Laramie
Davis,” answered Jeb Coltrain.

The
hostler swallowed hard, “The gunfighter?”

The
Judge grew impatient with all the questions, “Yes damn it, the
gunfighter.”

“Maybe
I should get your payment in advance,” he said thoughtfully,
“he's the type of feller you go up against and don't come away
from in one piece.”

The
Sheriff stepped forward and grabbed the hostler by the front of his
overalls, “Listen to me Mister, and you listen good. If you see
him ride into town, you come and let me know pronto. If I find out
you didn't, I'm goin' to come back here and burn the place down with
you in it. Do you understand me?”

A cold
sweat broke out over the man's brow and fear filled his eyes,
“Sure...sure thing Sheriff. I understand.”

Jeb
Coltrain pushed him away, “Good, now take care of our horses.”

As the
hostler watched the three men leave, he was filled with an escalated
sense of foreboding that the quiet town of Mountain Pass was about to
explode into violence.

*

The
Coltrain's next stop was the Mountain Pass Sheriff's office. It was a
double story construction with office down stairs and the jail cells
located on the second floor. It had large glass windows out front and
big yellow letters painted at the base of the second story that said,
JAIL.

Once
inside, the three Coltrains found a tall, slim, young man with light
coloured hair who sat behind a large cedar desk. Startled by their
entrance, the man scrambled to his feet.

“What
can I do for you fellers?” he asked nervously.

“Are
you the Sheriff of this burg?” Jeb Coltrain asked.

“No,
sir. I'm deputy Gunderson, Lyle Gunderson.”

“Where's
the Sheriff?” asked Jeb.

“He's
out of town at the moment,” the deputy explained, “the
stage is late and his daughter was on it, so he took a posse out
after it and left me in charge.”

The
Sheriff of Rock Springs opened his jacket once more to display his
badge. He showed no outward sign of any kind to tell he knew what had
happened to the stage, “The name's Coltrain, I'm from Rock
Springs, this is my brother Zeb, he's the local Judge and this is his
son Shell, my deputy.”

If
there was any indication that the deputy had heard of the Coltrains,
he didn't show it, “So, what brings you over to our neck of the
woods? Anythin' I can help you with?”

“We're
trackin' a killer,” Jeb elaborated, “we lost him in the
mountains, but we're reasonably sure he's headed here.”

Concern
showed on Gunderson's face, “Who is this killer you're in
pursuit of?”

“Laramie
Davis,” answered the Judge, “he damn well killed my boy
and I mean to see him hang for it.”

“He's
ridin' a big appaloosa, have you seen one in town at all?”
asked Jeb Coltrain.

Gunderson
shook his head, “Nope, but man have you guys got a bear by the
tail. I saw him in action once and let me tell you somethin', that
man is lightning fast with a gun.”

“He'll
be in hell when we're finished with him,” asserted the Judge.

“I
wish you fellers luck in your endeavours,” Deputy Gunderson
said politely, “I'll let the undertaker know to be expectin'
you.”

Jeb
Coltrain moved swiftly and back handed Gunderson across the face. The
blow was solid enough to knock the deputy to the hardwood floor,
“Don't you sass me boy. Let's get one thing straight from the
start, Davis is comin' here and we are stayin' in town until he shows
up. So just stay the hell out of our way.”

The
three Coltrains left the Sheriff's office and stood out in the middle
of the dusty main street.

“Where
to now, Uncle Jeb?” Shell asked as he looked around.

“That
place across the street looks mighty good, how about it?”

Shell
looked across the street and saw what Jeb was talking about. In
bright red letters on a well kept building was painted the name, 'The
Royal Flush Saloon'.

“I'll
be in that,” Shell said with a smile, “I could use a
drink.”

“What
about you Judge? Are you comin'?” Jeb asked.

The
Judge looked at his brother and nodded. Jeb could see the hurt and
rage in Zebulon's eyes and wondered how much more his brother could
take before he cracked completely. Up until now, it was just a few
chinks in his armour, but Jeb figured it wouldn't take much more.

Behind
them, Deputy Gunderson stared out the big window of the Sheriff's
office. He used a kerchief to dab at a small trickle of blood that
ran from the corner of his bruised mouth. While he did that, he
watched them walk across to The Royal Flush. There's a storm comin',
he thought to himself, and the town is goin' to be right in the
centre of it.

*

When
Laramie arrived at the Blackfoot village the next day, he was greeted
by Black Elk who was now, against his wife's wishes, up and about.

“I
see you are still alive Mingan,” Black Elk observed calling
Laramie the Blackfoot name for Gray Wolf, “what of men you
hunted? Are they in spirit land?”

Laramie
nodded, “The only spirit land they are in chief, is one filled
with plenty of fire.”

“Where
are bodies?” Black Elk enquired as the gunfighter climbed down
from his saddle.

“I
buried 'em,” Laramie said truthfully, “if you want to see
'em you'll find their graves at a place the white men call Miller's
Pond.”

“I
know of it,” said Black Elk.

Laramie
looked around, “Where is the girl?

“She
is with...” It was as far as Black Elk got before Sally burst
through the crowd of onlookers.

“Laramie!”
she cried ecstatically. She grabbed his arm to prevent the
embarrassment of a hug, “I'm so glad you're okay.”

“Have
they been lookin' after you girl?”

Sally
nodded, “Yes, they are wonderful people. They treated me very
well indeed.”

“I'm
glad,” the gunfighter said relieved.

She
tugged on his arm, “Come with me, I have a surprise for you.”

Laramie
frowned at her strange behaviour , but followed Sally anyway. She
took him to the teepee where she had spent most of her time, and out
front, wrapped in a buffalo robe was that damned old Ridge Runner
himself, Lonesome Lane.

“About
time you damn well showed up, instead of gallivantin' around the
countryside like some damn psalm singer,” Lonesome grouched.

Laramie
couldn't believe it. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, “You're
meant to be dead.”

“Hell
son, have you ever known a tough old boss loper like me to go under
without a fight,” he said with a wry smile, “besides, I'd
probably be dead if one of Black Elk's braves hadn't come along.”

Laramie
remembered back to when he was first brought into camp, that when he
related his story to the Blackfoot chief, the lone Indian had
disappeared.

“It's
good to see you still breathin' old man.”

“Did
you get them fellers you went after Laramie?” Lonesome asked,
“I'm guessin' you did or you would still be out there huntin'
'em.”

“Yeah,
they're gone. Folks won't have to worry about Blackie Harbin any
more,” Laramie went on to unfold the story to Lonesome and
Sally.

“Good,
saved me a job,” Lonesome said.

Laramie's
expression grew serious, “When we leave here you're comin' with
us. There should be a doctor in Mountain Pass to give you the once
over.”

“I'll
be fine right here,” the old mountain man insisted.

“No
arguments, you're comin' and that's it,” the gunfighter
asserted

“What
about the Coltrains?” Sally asked, “They're still out
there somewhere.”

“I'll
talk to your Pa when we get to Mountain Pass, he might be able to
sort somethin' out,” Laramie said hopefully.

“After
everything you've done, I certainly hope so,” Sally said.

“Yeah,
me too,” but he sounded less convinced.

*

The
next day, they left the Blackfoot camp. Laramie rode Bo, while Sally
and Lonesome rode a couple of Indian ponies they had been given.
Hidden under Laramie's shirt was a necklace that Black Elk had given
him. It was the one made of bear claws that the chief had worn and
was for bravery. The Blackfoot chief figured that Laramie was going
to need it more than he would.