Noose - Part One by Brett Matthew West Artwork by cleo85 at FanArtReview.com |
California long behind him, the elderly prospector hitched his heavily-burdened pack mule to the wooden post. A sudden fairy wind blew down the dusty street. For a moment, the haboob's temper tantrum obscured the old man's visibility. Then, as rapidly as the desert demon appeared the outrage ended.
Bundles in their arms, two bonneted women walked out of Millicent Abbey's dress shop. His keen eyes looked them up and down. The fiery redhead held possibilities the old man admired. He did not speak to them as they clippety-clacked their way down the boardwalk. Not even a tip of his hat. The redhead informed her companion, "Mabel Acosta told me that nice, young, Reverend Johannsen and Lulu McCord were caught unawares behind the livery stable." Marabeth Gruber gasped and covered her mouth with her fingers. In horror, she replied, "You don't say." "Why, Lulu had her corset down round her ankles, she did," the redhead insisted. "Oh my!" Marabeth exclaimed. The image of Lulu MCCord, with her knickers in a knot, made the women cackle as they strolled on. The prospector brushed the trail dust off his vest and chaps with his bowler. A cloud soon formed. He swatted the particles aside. Wiping his forehead with a bandana, he told the mule, "Sure is hot as a whorehouse on nickle night Cletus." Sauntering across the railed porch, the roamer entered the Bull's Blood saloon through the establishment's batwing doors. They swung closed behind him. A slight whoosh of wind could be heard. He paused a moment to survey his surroundings and felt the Bowie knife strapped to his side. Many buffalo had been skinned with the sharp blade. Feeling no imminent threats, he bellied up to the raucous bar. "I'd ruther roll dice with Erika going up the stairs with that no account scoundrel Charley Newman for a fair poke," Travis Cotton bemoaned. The vaquero beside him replied, "That jasper never had a lick of sense." Swallowing the last of his whiskey, Cotton said, "That little filly livens up this two-bit grogshop." "You been on the trail too long, amigo," came the buckaroo's response. "Erika don't cater to greenhorns ." A brisk allegro piano resounded as Guinevere Jeltson banged away on eighty-eight keys. The prospector looked in the direction the music came from. Been awhile since he heard any that vigorous. Bert Lawson ambled up beside him. The prospector became a talkative blatherskite. "John Henry, you old goat, what brings you into Whittenburg?" Lawson asked. The intruder's high forehead reminded the prospector of the Comanches in the Palo Duro Canyon. His question brought back memories long forgotten. Lawson continued, "Last time we crossed paths you was tethered to a stake to prevent you from escaping from Chief Green Eagle's warriors in the Battle at Puma River." A bit agitated, John Henry said, "As I recollect, took you and the 175th Cavalry, two months to rescue me." He dug a gem out of his faded shirt pocket and placed the gold coin on the counter. Others remained where that piece came from. Lawson liked shiny trinkets. He snatched the coin, placed the tender between his teeth, and chomped down hard. "Yup, that there's real gold," Lawson declared. "Where'd you get that nugget from, old man?" John Henry replied, "Vulture mine. Been prospecting most my life and ain't never seen a bigger lode nowhere." "That's the hole in Vulture Mountain in the Senora," Lawson confirmed. He handed the coin back to the prospector. In a friendly tone he said, "Let me buy you a bottle." "Much obliged," John Henry returned. Lawson pounded the bar and called, "Barkeep! Whiskey!" The bottle delivered, Lawson strolled to a table and sat down at a card game. "What's that about, Boss?" One-Eyed Kilby asked. He had lost his left eye in a grizzly bear hunt in Utah. "I hear tell John Henry kept a secret," Jesse Barlow chimed in. Braggadocious, Lawson replied, "Not anymore. We're rich, boys. The old fool's got gold and we're gonna take it all. Funny how a good bottle of whiskey can move mountains." Barlow anted up and dealt another round of Texas Hold'em. "What's the plan, Lawson?" "We follow John Henry. Let him lead us to his stash," Lawson paused. For emphasis, he patted the six-shooter on his hip. Those at the table nodded. "I hear Jax Tanner is headed this way," Sheriff Leon Malachai stated. "The wranglers of the Bar Double J outfit told me he rides with a half-growed waddie," Barlow interjected. He knew the deuce and seven off suit cards he dealt himself couldn't fetch a straight or a flush. His feathers ruffled, he chucked them into the pot in the middle of the table. "Nothing more than an orphaned scamp Tanner collected in Flagstaff," Kilby assured them. He drew heavy on his pipe, blew a smoke ring, and said, "Don't know what this danged territory's coming to." Undeterred, Lawson said, "Tanner gets in our way we got him outgunned. What I want to know is who that illiterate range rider is after?" Malachi calmly laid a Wanted Poster on the table, "You." Lawson looked at the poster, "Malachi, you can either make thirty dollars a month behind that tin star you wear, and be dead, or you can be rich." Malachi folded the poster up and stuck it in his shirt pocket. "I'm with you all the way, Lawson." Barlow saw movement through his good eye and informed the others, "John Henry's leaving." "Let's go, boys," Lawson responded. (TO BE CONTINUED:)
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Brett Matthew West
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