Ride a Twisted Trail

A Michelle Tanner Novella

#4 in the Michelle Tanner Series

Ron Lewis

© Copyright 2017/22/24 by Ron Lewis

Cover art by Shiloh Young

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate, but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes. This story contains some violence.

Ride a Twisted Trail

November 1866

What time the sun broke over the peaks east of Golden City was shrouded in mystery. Sunrise was never a precise moment in the mountains. More often than not, it depended on where you were and what mountain the sun rose behind. This day, being overcast and the tail end of a snowstorm, made the moment of dawn even more elusive than most.

The residents of the United States Marshals Office in Golden City went about their morning ablutions and gathered in the main office for their morning meal. Eggs, bacon, ham, and gravy were the usual fest for Officer, Jailer, and their ward, Sarah Culbertson. First, Henry served the guests of the establishment. Not a very onery lot that day, just a few drunk and disorderly miners from the previous night.

After breakfast, they’d march them into the judge. Where the lot of them would be fined and released.

By ten in the morning, the schoolteacher Sarah had trudged through the snow toward the graveyard west of town. The town of Golden City sat antigoglin in the little valley. The valley stretched from the southeast to the northwest, not squarely north and south.

So did the town.

Sarah Culbertson’s breath misted in the sharp morning air as her gloved hands brushed away the powdery snow that had settled on James Stockton’s tombstone like a thick, cold blanket. Her movements were gentle and reverent, each sweep of her arm an act of love and remembrance. The stone was a stark reminder of the life she once planned to share with the man who now lay silent beneath the frozen earth.

“James,” Sarah said, her voice steady despite the catch in her throat, “Michelle and Hawk are on the trail again. They’re after Nevil Anderson, the snake who shot the marshal down in Colorado City.” Scrunching up her face as she tried to recall a detail. “His name was... Scott, I believe. Anyway, someone spotted that no-good Anderson northwest of Eagle.”

She fell silent for a moment. Her gaze remained on the engraved letters that spelled out his name. The wind whispered through the bare branches overhead, wafting the scent of pine and winter with the breeze.

“Lord, how I miss you.” Sarah’s voice was almost a whisper. “We had fewer days together than apart already, and still, I’m pining for you.” She glanced skyward, half-expecting some sign or answer, but none came. With a heavy heart, she rose from her knees, patting the tombstone as if it were James’s broad shoulder.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, my love.” A small smile touched her lips. “That’s Sunday, November 5th, 1865. I haven’t missed a day yet, sweetheart.”

With one last look, Sarah turned her back on the grave and began the long trudge back into town. Her boots crunched through the packed snow, leaving a second trail that marked her passage back next to the one where she’d come from. She pulled her coat tighter around her, seeking refuge from the biting chill.

The US Marshal’s Office loomed ahead, a beacon of law and order amidst the untamed wilderness of the frontier. Pushing open the door, warmth greeted her, along with the familiar faces of Henry Buffalohead and Nathan Meeker.

“Sarah.” Henry nodded with a tip of his derby.

“Miss Culbertson,” Meeker said, greeting the girl with a warm smile and gesturing towards an empty chair.

“Ever tell you about the time I tangled with White Buffalo?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with the promise of a good yarn.

Sarah shook her head, the corners of her mouth turning upwards. She took the offered seat, drawing her legs up close and wrapping her arms around them like a child eager for story time. Resting her head on her knees, she looked up at Meeker, she expected nothing less than a humdinger of tale.

“Go on, then. Tell me the tale,” Sarah said, her curiosity piqued.

“Well, it was after I made friends with Momma Bear...” Meeker’s voice trailed off into the cozy atmosphere as he told the tale, both wildly tall and holy truthful.

What Joesph Nathan Meeker had done to make an enemy of White Buffalo, he never knew. But what an adversary he’d been.

Erstwhile northwest of Eagle, dawn had broken when they doused their campfire. The chill mountain air cut through even the toughest leathers. Michelle Tanner and Wounded Hawk worked with sharpened efficiency, their movements precise as they packed away the remnants of their campsite. The cooking gear clanged as it was secured in the panniers on the Sawbuck pack saddle on the mule’s back.

A sound that seemed almost hushed against the vast silence of the wilderness.

As they gathered up their gear, put on their buffalo robes, and prepared to depart, Wounded Hawk related his adventure in Estes Park.

“Horace Ghent,” Hawk said, his voice just above a whisper as he cinched the straps on his bedroll, “was frozen solid to the rock behind him and the ground below him. Had to leave him there.” His eyes looked far away as if he could still see the unfortunate soul clinging to the mountain’s embrace.

“The city marshal promised to get back up there after spring thaw and bury him.”

He continued on for a few minutes. Winding up his story as they rode out of camp, they still tracked what they hoped were their prey’s hoof prints.

“Damnedest thing I ever heard you tell, Hawk,” Michelle said, her green eyes reflecting both amusement and skepticism in the growing light. “We’ve been around Meeker too long. But you don’t have his flare for enhancement.”

“What was it said?” Hawk asked.

“Any good story is worthing puttin’ a shine on.” And the two of them laughed. “You need to do more polishing to yours.”

Hawk grunted, his features giving away no offense or pleasure from her statement. He knew his tales lacked the colorful embroidery Nat Meeker wove without effort into his own.

The two mounted up, leaving no trace of their presence but for the flattened earth where their fire had warmed the night. Hawk took the lead, his sharp gaze following the hoof marks etched in the snowdrift ahead. They rode in companionable silence. The noises were just the crunch of snow under the hoofs and the occasional snort from their mounts.

Michelle Tanner knew little of restraint in the world. She spoke free and easy with her words. This was most true of her male companions of the past year. Well, them and the orphan she roomed with, Sarah. Often, the citizens of Golden City said she was fearless.

Being an expert with her Colt Army .44s, carried in crisscross belts and slim-jim holsters, and the Henry rifle willed to her by an outlaw made her a woman to be feared. She rode with Hawk, aware of his skills in tracking and weapons.

They were quite a pair.

The two riders slowed as they topped a rise. With hands raised and shading their eyes, they gazed at two sets of tracks on the snow-covered pass. Off in the distance, they caught sight of another rider. This man traveled parallel to them. Using his spyglass, Hawk confirmed it wasn’t their prey.

They pressed on, following the tracks they knew to be Anderson’s.

“Might be a trapper,” Michelle said. “Or a miner with a hidden mine.”

“Don’t think so. Maybe a Union deserter that doesn’t realize the war’s over. Faded yellow stripes on his pants.”

“Well, the high lonesome a lonely life. Best we ride on, Provost Marshals problem, not ours.”

They rode for two hours.

As the sun climbed higher, casting a glow over the frosted landscape, they reached a new rise in the trail. It skirted the side of a tall peak. Its shadow stretched like a dark hand across the valley below. Michele reined in her mount, her eyes scanning the horizon while Hawk used his spyglass.

“There he is,” he said, his tone devoid of triumph, stating a fact and nothing more. “Right up yonder on near the bare peak ahead.”

“Sure it’s him?” Michelle squinted toward the distant shape.

Hawk nodded, his movements deliberate as he retrieved his Sharps big .50 carbine. Wounded Hawk dropped the shell into place and closed the action with a click that cut through the thin mountain air. He put his thumb on the hammer and prepared himself for the possibility of having to shoot the man at this distance.

“Let’s try to avoid an Avalanche, Wound,” Michelle said, a wry twist to her mouth as she gestured towards the precarious slope they were about to navigate.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The ghost of a smile on his lips as they nudged their horses forward. The pair of lawmen, law-persons, ready to face whatever lay hidden within the white expanse of the frontier. “He either has a packhorse or a companion.”

“You see, um?”

“No, tracks show two horses, one of which carries more weight than the other.”

Michelle’s horse stepped sideways, and she pulled her to stop.

“Quit that, Mary Todd. Smokey, stop crowdin’ her. I, Swannie, that gelding, thinks his equipment still works. Mary ain’t even in season. What’s the man doing up thar?”

“Watching us.”

The morning chill clung to the air as Michelle and Hawk advanced along the twisting trail, winding up the mountain’s flank with due caution. The silence of the wilderness enveloped them, broken by the hooves pounding into the snowbank.

A deep boom reverberated through the mountainside like the wrath of God himself. Hawk’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing on a shadowy figure above them. Nevil Anderson stood there, shotgun raised, a sinister silhouette against the backdrop of the Rockies. His weapon boomed a second time. The world seemed to pause for the briefest of moments before chaos ensued.

“Ride!” Michelle said, her voice carrying an urgency that spurred Hawk into action.

The sting of the spur brought the beasts to life. Riders wheeled their mounts around, the thunderous rumble of an avalanche hot on their heels, set loose by Anderson’s heedless shots. The ground beneath them trembled, a creeping monster of snow and ice cascading down the slopes with ravenous speed.

They pushed their horses hard, racing back the way they had come, as a billowing cloud of white surged behind them, devouring the trail in relentless pursuit. When it seemed the icy maw would claim them, they cleared the path’s edge, escaping the avalanche’s grasp by the narrowest of margins. Their hearts pounded like drumbeats in their chests as they watched the blanket of snow crashing, sealing off the trail behind them with finality.

“Well, that’s an unforgiving turn of events,” Wounded Hawk said.

“We might move west a bit and get past the slide and into that valley over yonder. What you think?”

“Might be we could.”

“I’m taking a strong disklike of Mister Nevil Anderson.” Michelle pulled a twist of tobacco from her pocket, bit off a chew, and held it out for Hawk. As usual, Hawk waved off the invitation. “I shouldn’t do this. I keep promising Sarah I’m giving this up.”

“Well, Shell, it isn’t ladylike.”

“Neither am I,” she said, laughing.

Meanwhile, not far to the west, in the secluded embrace of a valley cradled between two towering peaks, Ralph Gibbons surveyed the scene through narrowed eyes. He bore the weathered look of a man who’d spent too many days chasing shadows and storms. Limping slightly, he cut across a field blanketed in untouched snow, his gaze fixed on Nevil Anderson’s fleeing figure.

The Colorado sky seemed a reflection of the ground as fleecy clouds traversed between the peaks. For a moment or two, the light from the sun dimmed when one of the clouds blocked its light. Then, the light gleamed off the whiteout of the field. Anderson led his horse and readied himself to mount the beast.

Clambering onto his mount, Ralph Gibbons spurred his black stead on at full gallop. Thundering through the fresh powder, he pulled his horse to a sliding stop a few feet short of the outlaw.

“Stand fast!” Gibbons said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’d seen too much yet was unyielding in the face of adversity. Anderson halted, casting a wary glance over his shoulder. He knew the game was up; another gunshot might bring down the mountain’s wrath again.

An eagle squawked above them and dove. Snatching a rabbit from the ground and carrying it away, riding an air current around a peak in the distance.

“Them law hounds got you spooked?” Anderson sneered, trying to sound nonchalant-a gambler playing his last card. “Reckon I won big at cards, is all.”

Gibbons let out a derisive snort, thumbing through a bundle of wrinkled papers drawn from his coat.

“The hell you say,” he said, spitting the words from his mouth. His eyes alight with the flame of righteousness. “You’re wanted for the murder of the city marshal in Colorado City and a string of bank heists. Got a pretty bounty of $500 on your head.”

Anderson’s facade cracked, his bravado slipping away like water through his fingers. “Bounty hunter, are ya. You gonna take me in alone?” He challenged, though the quiver in his voice betrayed his fear.

“Alone?” Gibbons’s lip curled into a grim smile. “No, I reckon I’ll be joining forces with the pair you tried to send their graves. And together, we’ll see justice served.”

“Why you want to do that? Those two will, sure as shit, take the reward from you.”

“I’ll let the pair take the forty-five-dollar citizens’ reward for themselves. They are United States Deputy Marshals. Hell’s bells, desperado, they ain’t allowed government rewards.”

The valley lay quiet after the avalanche, a hush settling like a shroud over the landscape. Michelle Tanner and Wounded Hawk approached on horseback, their mounts’ breaths visible in the frosty air, as they met with Ralph Gibbons, who stood guarded beside his captive, Nevil Anderson.

The men approached the officers of the law. Gibbons’s handgun aimed at the back of his prisoner. They moved within a few yards of the marshals and stopped.

“Appreciate you holding him,” Michelle said, tipping her hat to Gibbons. Her eyes darted to the Calvary uniform that adorned him, frayed from hard travel and dusted with snow. “You’ve just come from the service?”

“Naw, was discharged more than a year back,” Gibbons said, grumbling, his voice carrying the bitterness of a man who had seen his plans fall apart. He shifted his weight, the slight limp in his stance betraying an old wound or a deeper malaise.

Wounded Hawk’s dark eyes narrowed, piercing through Gibbons’s veneer.

That was a preview of Ride a Twisted Trail. To read the rest purchase the book.

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