The Trapper’s Deadly Rescue (Preview)

Chapter One

The rain had stopped.

Elias looked out the window. Bright sunshine made the green grass sparkle with wet promise. Large drops of silver rolled off leaves, as a fresh breeze shook the branches of the trees that surrounded his cabin. The forest was coming alive after the long winter. Wyoming winters were always harsh, always deadly. 

Elias welcomed the spring. The equinox had passed. Every creature in the woods understood. It was the season for births and growth. Deer, elk, bears, all manner of animals shared his awe and thankfulness. The long, cold darkness was over—for now.

By the angle of the sun, he knew it was midday. He possessed a watch, but he didn’t wear it when he hunted. The Elgin, a first-anniversary gift from her, was on top of the bureau in his house by Codyville. He didn’t carry it for fear he would lose it or break it. It was all that was left of her, the best of her. She had saved what she earned from dress making in order to purchase the watch. He would never forget that.

He didn’t really need a watch. The hours were counted by the sun, the days by the moon. It was Saturday, although the day didn’t matter. He hunted whenever the weather allowed. 

And he needed to hunt.

His lean-to behind the cabin was nearly empty of the pelts and furs he traded in town. Without furs and meat, he couldn’t replenish his supplies. While he preferred to trap the animals he skinned, he never left the cabin without his rifle and an ample supply of cartridges. Fools tempted death. Idiots welcomed it. Was he afraid to die?

No, he wasn’t scared of dying. He was afraid of living. The guilt he carried tortured him every day. She died because of him, and Elias could never forget that. 

“Put on your boots, Elias.”

He spoke the words he had heard her say. She reminded him that he was a hunter, a provider. Since she was no longer there, he had to remind himself. Most days, those were the only words he uttered. 

“Put on your boots.”

Boots, Bowie knife, Colt, Winchester, leather pouch for ammunition, knapsack, coonskin hat–in minutes, he was ready. He had reached the point where he no longer had to think about his gear. It was habit, although there were days when he wished he did have to consider his equipment. That concentration kept him from remembering… her.

Last, he banked the fire, making sure there would be live embers upon his return. He had known hunters who left a fire burning only to return to ashes. One last look, and he was out the door. 

The air was clear, the breeze brisk. It was the kind of day he relished. He would check the traps first. With luck, the snares would yield small game—squirrels and rabbits. He knew that he had to harvest the game before the wolves found it. 

The wolves didn’t raid his traps often after the equinox. The packs preferred larger animals, deer and elk. Those animals would be grazing with their young, their vulnerable young. The wolves liked to separate the fawns from the adults. Pretty, little fawns on their own didn’t last long. Once the fawns were shunted aside, the adults moved on. Elias had seen it many times. Nature’s drama never ceased to amaze him.

Predators and prey.

Elias’s world had been divided into predators and prey. He was a predator. There was no doubt about that. He set the traps. He shot the deer. He dressed and skinned and traded the prey he found. 

Was he also prey?

To a wolf pack, he was food. But he didn’t consider himself prey, not for wolves. The creatures that might hunt him were human like him. When he thought about it—not often—he suspected that he would die by the hand of another person. 

Or by an unseen ailment he couldn’t overcome… as she had suffered.

He shook his head and settled his hat. 

His father had taught him to hunt. Their farm was on the western edge of civilization, right next to the mountains of Colorado. They hunted for food and skins that would keep them warm in the winter. Elias’s mother kept the garden. Elias and his father farmed and tended the cattle and pigs they raised. Hunting came after the crops were harvested and the garden produce was consigned to the cave dug into the side of a hill. 

Summer hunting was rare.

Winter hunting was difficult.

Elias remembered wading through snow drifts, stepping in the prints left by his father. Elias had to stretch to match his father’s stride, but that was far easier than plowing his own way. His father would point out the tracks, the droppings, the clues that would lead them to a buck or doe. In the dead of winter, they didn’t worry about bears. As long as they avoided the dens, Elias and his father were safe… mostly. 

There were hunts where Elias couldn’t feel his feet when he returned to the house. Tears ran down his cheeks, and his father pulled off Elias’s boots and massaged the blood back into cold toes. Elias never lost a toe, not like his father, who had lost two little toes to frostbite. 

“Take care of your feet.” His father had chanted that mantra often. “Your feet are your only transportation. Lose them and you’re stuck. When you’re stuck, you die.”

The words echoed through Elias’s head even now, even in the spring when the warm sun beckoned all God’s creatures. While winter hunts proved difficult, Elias preferred them to plowing and hoeing and harvesting. He knew his father would rather hunt. Elias’s mother was the farmer in the family. Elias’s wife had been a farmer’s daughter. How she had settled on a devoted hunter, he never understood. She had loved him, though, loved him more than he deserved. 

Next to a hot fire, tummy filled with his mother’s venison stew, Elias had listened to his father tell tales of the family left behind on the east coast. Those ancestors had been whalers, men who clambered aboard wooden ships and sailed off for a year or longer. Their hunts took them to hot climes and rough seas. Chasing prey was in the blood they had passed to Elias. Not all made it back to home port, but that was the risk a true hunter savored. 

“A ship is safe in port,” his father would say. “But ships aren’t made for port.”

Elias hadn’t understood that until he started hunting on his own. His Winchester was safe hanging on the wall. But Winchesters weren’t forged to hang on a wall. His wife had known that. She didn’t always accept it, but she knew. Elias was his best when hunting. That was the long and the short of it. 

Or maybe not the best of him. 

If he hadn’t been hunting… 

Thinking about her wouldn’t do, not while he was hunting. The forest was filled with dangers. A distracted hunter was apt to make a mistake. A fall might mean a busted leg or arm. Broken bones meant a painful trek back to the cabin. A serious break would take him to Codyville and the doctor there. 

Or the break might kill him.

He stopped to listen.

The music of the woods filled his ears. Bird song and squirrel talk and the drip of trees combined in a kind of lilt that never failed to please him. It was the tune he recognized and heeded. When it stopped, he would become very alert. 

He reached his first trap. 

Twenty yards ahead, a red-tail hawk stood atop the rabbit caught in Elias’s snare. 

Elias stopped and watched as the hawk buried his beak in the rabbit and pulled out a bit of meat. Even as the hawk ate, its head moved back and forth, its eyes on the lookout for larger dangerous animals that could deprive it of its meal. Elias knew that given a choice, the hawk would fly off with its find. The bird would find a safer spot for its meal. 

The snare prevented that.

Elias didn’t move. He watched. When the hawk finished, Elias would collect the rabbit for its fur. A rabbit pelt didn’t fetch a lot of money, but it was something. 

What had distracted him the day she died?

He bit his lip. He didn’t want to remember.

Chapter Two

Silas stood by the barn as his men hitched up the wagon. The rain had stopped, and he was not happy. There had been enough rain to make the ground soft, muddy. That meant the wagon and horses would be easy to track. Not that he expected much pursuit. According to his customer, the town sheriff had been bought off. By the time a posse was sworn in, Silas would be too far ahead to be caught. 

Stupid rain.

Rain was bad luck. It was that simple. Sure, the sun was shining now, but that didn’t mean much. The damage had already been done. Silas wanted to postpone the job, but the customer wouldn’t hear of it. It had to be this afternoon… rain or shine.

The horses pulled the wagon from the barn. It was only then that Silas noticed that one of the team had gone lame.

Lame?

“Colorado, did you notice the left?”

“What?”

Colorado had been taking care of the horses for almost a year. It was his job to make sure the horses were fit enough to work. The older, bearded man limped from inside the barn.

“What ya yellin’ about?”

“The left is lame. You didn’t know?”

“Show me.”

Silas signaled Josepheus, the driver. He clucked to the horses, and the wagon advanced ten feet.

“See it?” Silas asked.

“I seen it. He was fine yesterday.”

“Well, he ain’t fine today. Swap him out. I got a schedule to keep.”

“I got it. I got it. Give me a few minutes.”

Silas shook his head and marched for the big house where the rest of his men were waiting. He had spoken to them already, but he had learned that they couldn’t practice the attack too much. Most of them didn’t remember what they had for breakfast. Yet, he trusted them. What they lacked in brains, they made up for with loyalty. They did what they were told to do—without argument. 

The five men who were riding with him sat around a table in the kitchen, playing cards. 

“Leftie, those your boots?” Silas pointed to worn, muddy boots by the back door.

Leftie, a fat man, jumped up and grabbed the boots. “Sorry, boss.”

“This is not a pig sty! You live like pigs; you act like pigs. And pigs get slaughtered and ate. Leftie, I find your dirty boots inside the house again, and you’re gonna lose pay. You savvy?”

“Yes, boss.” 

Silas looked at his gang and sensed no nervousness in them. After all, they had done this before. To date, they had never failed. And it wasn’t as if they were robbing a bank or stopping a train. The law would chase them to hell and back if they stole money. Horse thieves were hanged from the nearest tree. Silas had settled for a crime that didn’t feed the passions of a posse. It might not pay like a bank robbery, but it was safer.

“Listen to me!”

The faces turned to Silas. His gang wasn’t a whole lot of anything except lazy. If they had possessed gumption and drive, they would have found honest work. Working for Silas was easier if a mite dangerous. 

“We’ve been delayed for a spell. Can’t do this job with a lame horse. I want all of you to check your guns. Make sure they’re loaded and will fire.”

“We checked them already.”

“Are you arguin’ with me, Turk? Because, if you’re arguin’, we got ourselves a problem. You arguin’?”

Turk was the youngest member of gang. Silas had found him in a Laramie saloon, about to have a finger cut off for cheating in a card game. An import from Turkey whose name Silas could hardly pronounce, the young man hadn’t learned that cheating at cards was a dangerous thing to do. Turk complained enough for two men.

“No, sir, I’m not arguin’.”

“That’s smart. And since you’re not arguin’, you’re goin’ to check your gun, right?”

Turk was trying to grow a beard, without much success. He rubbed the thin hair on his chin as he smiled. “Aye, boss. I’m going to check it right now.”

Turk pulled out his pistol slowly. As he did, Silas put his hand on his Colt, making sure Turk noticed. Silas was pretty sure Turk wasn’t going to start a shootout, but only a fool would take no precautions. If Turk turned the barrel in the wrong direction, Silas would draw.

Turk emptied his revolver, slapped the cylinder in place, and dry fired the pistol five times. He smiled. “Satisfied?”

“I’m satisfied, and you’re going to ride in the wagon on the trip back.”

“Ride in back with them?”

“That’s right. And I’ll tell you the truth. You’re going to like it.”

“Yeah, right. Do I have to?”

“You arguin’?”

Turk shook his head.

Silas smiled as the other men tested their own pistols. 

“Now masks. And remember, if they can’t see your face, they can’t recognize you in court. Keep your mask on until we deliver the goods. You show your face, and you make trouble for all of us.”

The men pulled black kerchiefs up over their faces, until they showed only their eyes. That they all wore black made identification that much more difficult.

“No talkin’. Got that? I’ll do all the talkin’ that’s necessary. You stay silent, and no one can finger you.”

“We know, boss.”

“You do, and you don’t know, Paco. You get to talkin’, and you’re gonna call out someone’s name. Keep quiet. No names, not even false ones.”

Silas gave the same speech before every job. He knew his men weren’t really listening, but that didn’t matter. They needed to be reminded. They weren’t soldiers. They didn’t immediately obey.

Did he want brighter men?

Not really. A smart man might plot to become the leader.

“One more point. You better have a damn good reason to fire a shot. We don’t shoot to cause a ruckus, and we don’t shoot to scare folks. We go in, we do our business, and we leave.”

The men nodded. They weren’t killers. Silas knew they would kill only if they had to. His role was to make sure they didn’t have to. Murder would send them to the gallows, and Silas didn’t want his neck stretched.

He pointed toward the door. “You all know what you’re supposed to do. Keep your mind on your job. We deliver this load, and we celebrate.”

The men nodded, mumbling but not complaining… as far as Silas could tell. He turned and headed back to the barn. The ride wouldn’t take more than three hours or so. A muddy trail might slow them down. 

Minutes later, Turk was seated next to Josephus at the front of the covered wagon. On his horse, Silas took a peek into the wagon, making sure there were enough blankets. The wagon had not been changed, as Silas didn’t want to draw attention. It was the equal of the prairie schooners that had come to Wyoming for decades. From a distance, it wouldn’t draw attention. Satisfied, he walked his horse to the front of the small troop. He paused and turned back to the others.

“I got one message for you. Do… your… job! You do that, and we’ll be back here drinkin’ sooner than you can say giddyup.”

Silas kicked his horse and started off at a walk. He promised himself that if the alley door to the building wasn’t unlocked, he was going to shoot someone.

The bright sun and clear air reminded him of his youth, the good days before his father died, before his mother remarried. Silas had never forgiven his mother for that. She replaced a good man with a tyrant. 

Silas shook his head, wishing away the bad images, the bad days. He wasn’t going to allow himself to reconsider his past. Nothing could be done about that. 

His horse splashed through a puddle. 

Stupid rain.

Chapter Three

Clara danced across the stage. She sang as she skipped, the other saloon girls behind her, adding their voices and dancing for the show. In front of them, the round tables were filled with men of all ilk. Cowboys, ranchers, merchants, farmers, bankers, all the tables were filled. 

Some of the men hooted, and some sang along with the girls. A few danced in the aisles. The piano player pounded the keys, making as much sound as possible. It was a typical Saturday afternoon in the V Velvet Slipper Saloon. Labor had been stopped for the week, and many men wore their work outfits. It was their time to bleed off a bit of steam. They had come to drink and laugh and catch a glimpse of the legs beneath the dresses of the saloon girls. 

Clara was a typical saloon girl with legs to ogle… and a voice to listen to. Her pretty face included red rouge cheeks and bright green eyes. She smiled even when she wasn’t trying to impress, not like some of the girls, whose smiles transformed into frowns when no one was watching. This was her turn to lead the typical show.

The typical men loved it.

The typical Saturday included Percy Hargrove.

Clara knew Percy sat alone at his own table to her right. He smoked Key West cigars and sipped genuine Thistle Dew whiskey. Woe betide the bartender who watered down the Thistle Dew. Percy had had at least two bartenders fired for the blasphemy. 

Percy was dressed better than anyone else in the room, a gold watch on a gold chain highlighted his checkered vest. His green tie was meant to match Clara’s eyes (he had told her that). She had smiled at the compliment, as Percy always generously tipped her. He always bought expensive drinks for her, drinks that were never what the bartender promised. That didn’t bother her. Everyone with an ounce of moxie knew the score. Percy paid for the flavored water Clara sipped.

Saturday afternoons wouldn’t be the same without him. Although Clara didn’t particularly care for him. 

Not anymore.

There was a time she had shared jokes and laughs with Percy. He was attentive. The owner of the Velvet Slipper appreciated Percy’s presence. Keeping on the good side of the best lawyer in Codyville was a good investment. Clara had been advised more than once to keep on Percy’s good side, and she did her best to oblige. 

That was some months ago. Recently, Percy had become more aggressive. 

Customers were not allowed to touch the girls unless the girls invited it. And some girls did. Some girls liked to pet and stroke men, as that meant more drinks. The girls knew their job. They dressed in bright satin and low-neck lines because that kept men in their seats, ordering whiskey and beer. And the girls came in all sizes and shapes, although some girls, like Clara, appealed to all types of men. 

Percy had taken to touching her arm or hand without asking permission. That bothered Clara. She had gone to sitting with another man when Percy was in the saloon. She couldn’t complain to the owner, as she needed the job. Earnings from the saloon helped support her Grandmother Hester, who had raised Clara.  She couldn’t jeopardize her grandmother’s small house in Lunder, a town five miles away. That meant Clara had to smile at Percy and occasionally sit with him. She knew how to play the coquette role. 

How long would Percy play along?

Clara hoped for as long as she needed to be a saloon girl.

The song ended. 

The girls smiled and bowed and skipped past the lanterns and off the stage. They spread out through the room, sliding onto empty chairs, or leaning over full tables. Some, like Clara, went straight to the bar and grabbed drinks to deliver. Clara recognized the two beers and two whiskeys that had been ordered by the Lumsy twins. They, too, were Saturday regulars. 

And the Lumsy twins weren’t handsy like Percy.

She smiled at Percy as she passed, and her smile was nothing more than a smile. She was not inviting him to anything, just keeping him dreaming. People needed to dream. Clara dreamed too—just not of Percy.

The Lumsy twins were identical–red hair, thick necks, the dirty, callused hands of farmers. Clara considered them harmless as they were married to two sisters who were known to rule the roost. While the twins enjoyed looking at the girls, looking was all they did. They spent as much as most (what their wives allowed). Clara kept Mark and Luke in their seats, and they managed to spend a bit more.

“Clara, ya’ll sing like a robin.”

“Hush, Mark, you can’t even hear me with the other girls singin’.”

“I’m Luke.”

“I know.” Clara laughed. “I like to fiddle with you.”

“Ain’t you a caution. You gonna sit with us a spell?”

“Only if you promise to stay for the next show.”

The twins traded looks. 

“Sure, we’re gonna stay. Can’t say no to the prettiest girl in town.”

“In that case, buy me a drink.”

Mark jumped up and headed for the bar.

The piano player stepped away, and the din in the room increased. In one corner, the poker players restarted their game. Two girls stood by the car players. They weren’t trained to spot cheaters, but sometimes, they spotted dishonest players. When they did, they informed the owner who quietly escorted the thief out of the saloon. Cheaters were always high risk. Clara had witnessed exactly one shootout at the poker table. That was an evening she preferred to forget.

An hour later, Clara tousled the thick, red hair of the Lumsy twins before she headed to the dressing room behind the small stage. The room was small, crowded with dancers and singers. Their satin dresses rustled as the moved about, checking their hair and rouge. Dresses were adorned with fringe and sequins. Many of the girls wore short dresses, some very short. Clara’s dress flattered her strong legs, but it wasn’t too short. Just enough to tease a man into another drink. 

Some girls poured themselves a glass of whiskey. Their room was always well stocked. Although the whiskey tasted like kerosene, it added a bit of energy to the show. Clara had never needed the jolt, a tribute to her resolve.

“Clara, you gonna lead?”

Clara turned to Eunice, a small blonde girl with big, blue eyes. Eunice was pretty enough, but she was slow. She would have been a lead singer if she had been able to remember the lyrics. 

“I’m leadin’, Eunice. You remember your steps?”

“Sure do. Left, left, right, left.”

“Show me.”

Eunice pulled up her dress and tapped out the steps.

“That’s great, but you’re starting with the wrong foot.”

“Left.” Eunice stuck out her shoe.

“Other left.”

Eunice frowned. 

“What hand do you sign with?”

Eunice held up her right hand.

“That’s correct. That makes your other hand your left hand, remember?”

Eunice smiled. “Oh, yeah, now I remember. Not my signin’ hand. The other one.”

“Exactly.”

Eunice started for the door that led to the stage, and Clara grabbed the girl’s arm.

“Not yet. We got to listen for the piano player. When he starts our song, we go out.”

“Oh, right, right. I keep getting’ that wrong.”

Clara patted Eunice’s arm. “We all make mistakes sometimes. Just don’t let it make you sad.”

“Why do you truck with her? She’s a dummy.”

Clara turned to the voice which belonged to Gilda, a tall, big-boned woman who was known to fleece a cowboy when he drank too much and couldn’t remember.

“Eunice dances as good as anyone, and you know it.”

“Once she gets started. You’re wastin’ your time on her. Dummies never get it right.”

“You just do your own dancin’, Gilda. I’ll take care of Eunice.”

“Suits me. Only make sure she’s on the other side, so she don’t trip me up.”

“We line up like always. Sometimes, I think you want Eunice to misstep.”

Gilda rolled her eyes, which made Clara want to jerk off Gilda’s ratty wig and toss it out the back door. 

“I don’t misstep too much do I?”

“No, Eunice, you do fine. Gilda is just messin’ with you.”

Clara listened for the piano cue, but it was some minutes away. Noble, the piano player, played the same order of tunes every day—unless someone slipped him a coin. Noble, while sober, could play European symphony music. He wasn’t often sober. His list consisted mostly of popular,  East Coast ditties and bar songs everyone knew.

Gilda stepped away from the old, cracked, spotted mirror that served the girls. Clara stepped up, checking her makeup and hair for the last time. When she first started dancing, she didn’t always do a final check. She remembered an embarrassing dance when her lipstick had smeared half across her cheek. That had bought her a lot of laughs but not much else.

The piano paused, and Clara started for the stage door, only to stop when the piano started a different melody. She stepped back. Two more minutes of non-dance was the price to pay. She was about to sit when the alley door burst open.

And a black masked man, gun in hand, rushed inside.

Chapter Four

Paco’s duty was to keep anyone from using the stage door. Silas watched as Paco stepped toward the door, not quite fast enough to keep the little girl with long dark hair from lunging for the doorknob. 

Paco grabbed the girl’s arm, which should have been enough… should have been.

The girl spun, jerked her arm free, and kicked Paco’s shin. Paco released the girl who pulled at the door.

By then, Silas had arrived, and he slammed the door shut. 

The girl tried to kick him, but he dodged and shoved the gun barrel into her nose. 

She glared at him, and he was glad he was the person with the pistol. He didn’t doubt that she would kill him if she could. 

“Don’t scream,” he hissed. “Or they all die.”

He glared and shoved her toward the alley door, where the other girls were being herded through. He expected the girl to scream, so he slapped his hand over her mouth and half carried her into the alley. 

She was the last, followed by a limping Paco, who climbed onto his horse. Silas hoisted her into the wagon and pulled down the curtain that would keep prying eyes from seeing her or the other girls. 

“Go!”

He didn’t have to call twice as Josephus slapped the reins. The horses moved, leaving Silas to close the alley door. The rest of the gang followed the wagon. He looked up and down, making sure no one had witnessed the kidnapping. 

Silas hated working in daylight. Too many eyes saw too much.

With a last survey, he holstered his pistol, pulled down his black kerchief, and climbed onto his horse. He didn’t follow the wagon… not yet. He rode into the street and settled at the end opposite the direction of the wagon. When the saloon crowd rushed out looking, he would be there to point them in the wrong direction. It wasn’t much, but it would buy the wagon some time. 

His horse tied down, he sat on a wooden bench and lit a hand-rolled cigarette. The gang wasn’t out of the woods yet. When the posse galloped off in the wrong direction, he would slip away. Someone would remember him. That didn’t matter. He was just another stranger off the range.

*****

The rushing water soothed Elias. He set down his pelts and meat bag, leaned his Winchester against the rock, and took a seat. Spring rain had swollen the river. Not to flood stage but higher than normal. Splashing, sending foam into the air, the cold water reminded him that life was coming back to the territory. Winter was over, washed downstream. Spring had arrived. The heat of summer would soon be upon him.

Was he going to plant a garden this year?

He hadn’t decided. He had time. He knew he wasn’t going to farm. Those days had passed. Yet, he appreciated fresh vegetables. Living on a diet of meat and more meat wouldn’t do. He had to vary his intake or suffer the consequences. The garden would be planted. Half of it would be consumed by critters. The other half would feed him. Seemed fair to his way of thinking.

The water was too rough to fish. There weren’t enough calm pools where fish could wait for the flies and moths to land. He didn’t need much bait when the fish waited in the calm water. A hook, some feathers, hungry fish would bite. The only possible problem would involve a bear that wanted to part Elias from his catch. The bears would become aggressive in the fall, when they needed to bulk up for winter. Elias didn’t fish in autumn. He respected the bears.

In the distance, he could see the buzzards circling. They were black dots against the blue sky. They had found something to track, something dying. Carrion eaters, Elias considered them gleaners. They kept the area clean of the dead.