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  When he heard the name, spat with venom and disgust by a passing woman, it dawned on Deputy Swallows what in fact was going on as he heard the loud voice of the female citizen. “Bonny Kate Valance! Right here in our good town! I don’t care if she’s going to be hanged, hanging’s too good for the likes of her. What I want to know is why they brought her to Jackson in the first place and what she’s doing here!”

  A few local men not looking where they were going bumped into the deputy and jostled him. One of them, a bartender Swallows knew named Jim Peters, instantly apologized, then was tugging on Swallows’s sleeve, pumping him for information.

  “Deputy, is it true what they’re saying?” the barman stammered. “You got the real Bonny Kate Valance in your jail?”

  Deputy Swallows had left the office before Frank Butler and his gang rode up and delivered the prisoner for the reward so at present he knew nothing about any of this. Right now the deputy had no idea what anybody was talking about. Careful not to undercut his own authority by sounding like he didn’t know something he ought to, Swallows simply gave his standard reply, “The marshal is straightening this all out and he’ll let everyone know everything they need to when he’s good and ready to ’cause he’s the marshal and it ain’t my place.” With that, the junior lawman shouldered past the onlookers and moved on down the street.

  Three minutes later, Swallows pushed through the crowd in front of the single-story building that housed the U.S. Marshal’s office and there Jack Mackenzie was standing outside the door, his face red as he looked at his deputy, shook his head, and quipped, “Well, Deputy, you got the worst case of bad timing in history, going out on an errand the last fifteen minutes. Close the door behind you and lock it, then I’ll fill you in.”

  Right after Swallows was inside and had bolted the lock he saw the notorious outlaw Bonny Kate Valance in the flesh.

  The deputy was tongue-tied, couldn’t get a word out.

  There she stood behind the bars of her cage, flaming fiery red hair tumbling like a mane around her shoulders, voluptuous figure beneath a work shirt and blue jeans, softly pressed against the bars of the cell while on her angelic healthy freckled face her heart-shaped lips were curled in something in between a smile and a sneer as her magnetic blue eyes fastened, then locked on the deputy’s.

  Swallows felt like his insides had just been turned inside out as his knees got weak and legs went numb. The legends and stories were true: the infamous renowned woman gunslinger and bank robber had all the raw, wild, untamed beauty and seductive charisma the legend said she did. Bonny Kate just stood, there more animalistic than ladylike, watching him with equal parts randy amusement, aloof detachment, and affable disregard. That the woman hadn’t bathed in some time was apparent: weeks of sleeping outdoors were manifest from sullied layers of caked trail dirt, grubby saddle grime, and dried sweat smeared over the exposed soft skin of her face and hands. Yet lack of soap and water hurt Bonny Kate’s looks not one bit, Swallows observed, for she was the rare woman who looked better dirty, as if it was supposed to be her natural state and cleaning her up would wash off the animal magnetism she so sensually radiated, and to do so would wipe away the natural endowments her clothes barely kept under wraps. And there was her perfume—Swallows could smell the female outlaw’s pungent body odor from across the room, an arousing sweet musky lady funk that had the lawman breathing through his nose to better inhale her scent. Because of this powerful first impression Bonny Kate Valance made, Deputy Nolan Swallows had formed his opinion of her character in the brief five seconds he first set his gaze upon her.

  That Bonny Kate was a savage.

  The deputy decided she was the same as a jungle cat that belonged in the wilds, not a cage, and seeing Bonny Kate behind bars caused him regret until he realized those hungry eyes of hers now fastened to his had, like a jungle cat, the predatory sheen of killer instinct.

  “Stop staring, Deputy, ain’t you ever seen a dead woman before?”

  “She don’t look dead to me, Marshal.”

  That got a grin and guffaw from the prisoner. The deputy thought her teeth were the whitest he’d ever seen, even though they looked sharp. To Swallows, her short little laugh sounded like whiskey tasted or would sound if single malt made noise.

  “Might as well be,” Mackenzie said. “Her neck’s gonna be swinging at the end of a rope in a month’s time. First woman ever executed in this territory. That is a historical fact.” Mackenzie sounded unimpressed with their famous prisoner but behaved with a professional equanimity. “Deputy Swallows, meet Bonny Kate Valance. Making history like she always has, right to the bitter end.”

  Swallows took off his hat. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  Bonny Kate actually curtsied, and the graceful gesture looked proper and genteel. “Every time of the day is good to me, Deputy, being as I only got thirty of ’em left, so they tell me,” she retorted in her husky, honeyed voice. “That is, unless I can convince you two lawmen that what I have been saying all along is the truth, that I did not kill those men they say I done but I damn well know who did and can prove it, and the fact is, I am an innocent woman unjustly convicted and about to be wrongfully hanged!”

  CHAPTER 20

  Noose was getting more friendly with the horse he had dubbed Copper with each passing hour.

  The cowboy took pains not to push the animal too hard, saving up its strength until he needed it, and never used his spurs on its scarred flanks.

  The trail wended through hilly olive green and dun brown terrain steepled with verdant pine trees. For now the coast was clear. A monolithic barrier range of clouds formed jagged massifs in the vast slate blue sky overhead, blocking the sun so the air had cooled down.

  Riding straight and tall in the saddle, Noose sat the horse well, patting it on the withers and chatting with it. The conversation was one-sided but didn’t feel that way, because Copper would look back and shoot him a glance now and again to indicate he was listening and maybe even understood—at least Noose liked to think he did. In a few minutes he would dismount and let Copper rest and drink from his canteen.

  It was a great horse, tall and strong and muscular with a beautiful line to its back. But the months or years of violent maltreatment from the dead no-account prior owner had taken its toll on the brave piece of horseflesh. The first hours Noose rode Copper were difficult and he had expected the stallion was going to be a heap of trouble. The cowboy had felt the fear and tension braced in the stallion’s clenched muscles between his own lower legs like the wary horse was expecting to be struck or hit at any moment. In those moments, Noose would hush it and pat it with his big, strong, gentle hands and the quivers inside the animal would cease and a longer and longer calm descended upon the steed.

  Joe Noose was slowly gaining the horse’s trust—a good thing because both of their lives depended on it: the murderous bounty killers on their tail would not hesitate to shoot horse or rider or both, depending on what was most expedient for them at that given moment; Noose knew he and Copper needed each other to survive. The funny thing was, the cowboy had begun to suspect the animal figured the same thing—he felt their growing bond intensify with each mile.

  Copper was incredibly responsive to his every physical and verbal command; Noose had a hunch it had been an army cavalry quarter horse or at least begun life trained in a military stable, due to the fierce clockwork precision of Copper’s movements. Farm horses just didn’t act that way. Or might be the horse was just special.

  Plus, there was a natural warmth and affection the bronze and gold stallion exuded, wholly unlike any army mount Noose had come into contact with. This horse had a big damn heart.

  Now it had an owner who appreciated it.

  Noose was going to never forgive himself if he got Copper shot or lamed or otherwise injured in the journey that lay ahead. If that came to pass, he would personally murder the son of a bitch that harmed his horse and make sure he hurt that man tenfold. Didn’t matter whether it
was right or wrong.

  This horse had known suffering. Joe Noose knew his strong connection with Copper came from that, since he himself carried considerable hurt and pain beneath his tough exterior. Copper sensed it because horses are sensitive creatures. Always good with horses, Noose had been called a horse whisperer by some, and all true horse whisperers carried a lot of emotional scars around inside that the animals responded to from their own inner sensitivity. The connection was intimate and intricate. Both Noose and Copper were fine-tuned animals and each understood the other with an easy, natural communication.

  The best part of riding Copper was Noose did not feel alone. Here, now, outnumbered and outgunned and hunted like an animal, the cowboy had every reason to feel isolated but the horse kept him company. He had a friend. A companion and a comrade he hoped to keep for a long, long time. It wasn’t just his own life Noose worried for, it was Copper’s. But Copper had his back, too. The worst part of being hunted down like a lone wolf was you felt so wretchedly solitary and insignificant, always trying to just save your own sorry skin. It made a man feel small, and his courage and strength shrank with that self-perception. When you felt responsible for something outside yourself, the need to protect it made you stronger. That’s how Noose felt about this horse and he was feeling stronger than he had since this whole damn thing began.

  As they rode along the crest of a ridge, Copper kept a strong vigorous pace, not needing to be rested or provisioned. Noose kept a semi-relaxed gait in the saddle, one hand on the reins, one hand clenching his Colt .45—his head made a steady rotation, his gaze swinging from mountains to valley, then back again, repeatedly looking over his shoulder. Undulating drab green grassy slopes rose and fell like a woman’s backside, the swells spiked with deep blue-green steeples of pines covering the mountains on either side like reptile scales.

  Noose was wishing for trees.

  Right now, he was riding in an open quarter-mile area with only the sky to cover him, exposed to sight and the line of fire of his enemies. He was starting to sweat as much from nerves as the heat and felt like a sitting duck. Trouble was, this was the way the trail led. He needed to get himself and his horse under some tree cover and fast.

  To his left, the ground dropped off sharply into a granite gorge, so that wasn’t going to do him any good. Two hundred yards northeast, to his right, there was a dense forest leading up a treacherous ravine too steep for Copper to climb, but if he could get inside the tree line his ass wouldn’t be hanging out. Problem was, between the trail and those trees were piles of rocks and rubble, and the horse would have a hard time finding footing and could break a leg. They were between the hawk and the buzzard, as the saying went, but the trees were the only safe option so they had to try and take cover there.

  Noose used his knees and reins, not his spurs, to steer Copper slowly and carefully off the path and toward the pines, and his horse’s hooves left the trail and crunched over the rocks. The cowboy patted its neck and whispered reassuringly to his steed, and all the while his own eyes cut back and forth over the area and then to the ground to see where his mount was stepping. It was slow going, but they made safe progress and the wall of trees drew steadily closer—close enough to see that past the branches parts of the mountainside might be scalable on horseback after all.

  His saddle felt wet and when Noose looked down, he saw a spreading crimson red stain in the browned leather. His bullet wound had opened and was beginning to smart again, but he put the pain out of his mind and kept a sharp lookout.

  Looked over his shoulder at the trail behind.

  Empty.

  He shot a glance behind him again, saw nothing in the direction they’d be coming from, the only direction they could approach.

  The tree line grew ever nearer. Copper’s hooves skidded on the rocks with an unsettling abrasive sound, but it kept its balance and put its feet right, trotted evenly, and kept going steadily forward.

  A damn good horse.

  The hills were quiet but the killers were out there, Noose knew, and not far behind.

  He just couldn’t see them.

  Maybe that meant they couldn’t see him, either—

  A bullet buzzed past his ear close enough to singe his scalp, the loud crack of the rifle reaching his ears an instant later.

  —then again, maybe not!

  All of a sudden, the shots were coming fast and close, just missing him, so the bounty killers had to be just out of range, a few hundred yards back.

  Lips tightly compressed over gritted teeth, Noose cocked his pistol and twisted in the saddle, sending a stabbing pain through his midriff. Yes, they were coming from the direction he thought. There was movement and rustling in the trees a few hundred yards back up the trail and a second later, the seven bounty killers broke cover and charged out of the forest, guns blazing. They were on him like flies on dung.

  Whirling forward, Noose didn’t even try to get off a shot—it would be a wasted bullet and lead he could scarce afford to spare at this distance. His hard gaze fixed forward, the cowboy focused all his attention on Copper, knowing now was the moment to use the time he had banked to get all the horse had to give. “Yee-ahh!” Noose shouted loud enough for the steed’s respect but not loud enough to scare it, driving his legs but not his boots against the animal’s flanks, galloping it forward and half-blind into the trees.

  Branches and nests of twigs slapped his face, and the green curtain of pine brushed aside as the man and horse rode into the trees. Once inside the shady forest canopy, the ground appeared to go straight up—the steeply slanted mountainside was rough, uneven, and rock strewn. Rows of big pines stood in their way like giant fence posts.

  “Go, boy!” Noose shouted again. “Yee-ah!” The horse took the hill, and the fearless stallion ran at a ninety-degree angle as it climbed up the incline in long forceful strides, powerful hind and front legs galloping in unison. The precipitous grade and pull of gravity sent Noose sliding back in the saddle and he grabbed on to the pommel with both hands as his horse determinedly ascended the steep mountainside. Its hooves plowed the dirt. Copper’s face was turned dead straight ahead, eyes taking quick measure of the uneven ground and ditches and ruts between the trees—Noose did not have to tell the horse a damn thing because if there was a way to go and get up this pass, Copper was going to find it and take it.

  By now, the bounty killers had reached the tree line, and when the gunshots came they were plentiful and close by.

  A roaring fusillade of bullets fired up from below punched ragged holes in the trees around Noose, plowing craters in the trunks, splintering chunks of bark, and showering wood chips all over man and horse. The air filled with clouds of blasted timber fragments. Strings of rifle and pistol reports crackled through the forest in a deafening directionless echo. “Go, don’t worry, boy, just go, we can do this!” yelled Noose, his face a savage mask. With relentless effort, Copper kept jackknifing his back and front legs, carving his way higher and higher into the hills. A lot of ground had already been covered.

  Swinging a glance over his shoulder, Noose saw to his grim satisfaction the Butler Gang was not having as easy a time getting up the mountain as he and Copper had now the posse was trying to give pursuit. The horses were having none of it—the hill was too damn steep. The sounds of yelling men and protesting horses and cracks of whips faded below. Soon, Noose would be out of range of the guns.

  Suddenly there was a percussion of pounding hooves—Noose looked back to see that Frank Butler had taken the lead and charged his ferocious black horse straight up the hill following in Copper’s footsteps. His mean stallion was big and fast and looked as evilly determined as its rider—its frothing mouth chomped at the bit, yellow teeth bared carnivorously . . . Noose could swear that damn steed’s eyes were red!

  The cowboy thought if there was ever a horse he might shoot this would be the one because this four-legged son of a bitch looked like it wanted to eat him.

  Butler was a crack horsema
n and sat in the saddle shooting two guns up at Noose with both gloved fists, using his legs to stay on his tilted horse. He loosed off one bullet after another—left, right, left—the slugs whizzing past Noose’s and Copper’s heads. Butler’s black stallion did the rest of the work. And it was gaining as it scaled the mountain face.

  The intimidating initiative Butler’s horse displayed by taking front position proved sufficient psychological motivation for the other horses and got the rest of the gang moving. With their brutal armed riders in the saddle, the rest of the stallions charged straight up the incredibly steep hill in single-file formation right behind Butler now they saw his horse could do it . . . and the gang of bounty killers came on like a relentless, inescapable killing machine whose only purpose was death-dealing.

  The trees parted and Noose saw past Copper’s head the beginnings of a trail on even ground heading northwest into the forest. They had to get off the slope, so he yanked on his tireless horse’s reins and once they had ascended to the ledge, galloped it down the trail even though he didn’t know if it would lead anywhere except a dead end in the brush and the trees.

  For a few precious seconds, the man and horse put distance between them and the posse giving them chase of a few hundred yards. Noose just rode hell-for-leather, riding for his life and hoping he and Copper didn’t get shot in the back.

  Mostly Copper.

  CHAPTER 21

  Galloping around the bend, by the time Noose and Copper saw the edge of the ridge they were going too fast to stop. The trees suddenly parted and there was just big sky and a ninety-degree drop down a hundred feet of slope into the surging expanse of the Snake River wending around the mountainside. “Whoa!” Gritting his teeth, the cowboy yanked back on the reins as hard as he could, trying to turn his horse, who was already scrambling to a stop and rearing on its hind legs, but it was too little, too late . . .