Post by Double Take on Mar 3, 2009 5:27:15 GMT -8
THE NIGHT OF THE SHIFTING RAVEN
“Ever seen a blue-eyed raven, James?” Artemus Gordon asked his partner who rode along side him as their horses trotted through the dusty heat of the Arizona foothills. Artemus studied the cloudless, blue sky where a small black speck circled over head.
James West glanced briefly at the sky, following Gordon’s gaze. He frowned slightly, he was much more concerned with following the trail of the killers than worrying about a bird. Still, he knew his friend and fellow Secret Service agent would not let the subject drop if something was troubling him.
“Can’t say as I gave it much thought, Artie, but I would’ve said ravens have black eyes. Why?”
“The same bird has been pacing us for the last twenty miles or so,” Artemus replied as he continued to watch the circling bird.
“Okay, I’ll bite. How do you know it’s the same bird? Ravens aren’t exactly unusual in these parts.”
“Blue-eyed ravens?” Artemus queried his partner. “The last two times we stopped to rest and water the horses, a raven with blue eyes landed nearby. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I swear it’s the same bird!”
“Maybe it’s a spy for the Cotter gang,” West shook his head and smiled grimly. He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his jacket. Though he would like to dismiss his partner’s concerns as being ludicrous, he trusted Artemus Gordon’s instincts.
He glanced at the sky again, “We have a few more hours of light, then we’ll be forced to stop. I expect the Cotters will push on after dark. We could do with a spy of our own that could track them at night.”
*****
This was West and Gordon’s second day following the Cotter gang through the Arizona foothills. Normally murder did not fall under the jurisdiction of the Secret Service, but this time it did. Two experienced Secret Service agents had been killed while investigating a counterfeiting ring in the town of Blue Water, north of Tucson. The Cotter brothers and their gang of hired guns had been contacted by the counterfeiters to provide protection for the passers who would be moving the money to various cities in the western states and territories. The Cotters had stumbled upon the two agents, Michael Greer and Jeffery Matson, monitoring the counterfeiter’s hideout, an old shed that was part of a long abandoned ranch. After torturing the agents to learn what they knew, the Cotters had executed them.
When Matson and Greer did not report in to their superior, Colonel McPherson, as scheduled, James West and Artemus Gordon were sent to contact the overdue agents. Greer’s last message indicated that the counterfeiters were looking for protection for the passers. Greer suspected that the notorious Cotter gang had been contacted to provide this service.
West and Gordon had arrived at the counterfeiter’s hideout less than a day after the agents were murdered, and found it abandoned. Inside the building were the bodies of Michael Greer and Jeffery Matson; both men were well known to West and Gordon. There was sadness in Artemus Gordon’s brown eyes as he examined the bodies of the men. Meanwhile his partner canvassed the area looking for tracks of the killers.
Judging from the signs Jim had found, it appeared that the group had split up. The larger group, presumably Marion Cotter and his gang, had headed across the sparsely populated territory avoiding any roads or trails, while the smaller group of counterfeiters took the main road.
Colonel McPherson would have preferred sending the Secret Service’s top agents after the counterfeiters, but James West had other plans. It took some convincing, but he finally received permission from Colonel McPherson to pursue the Cotters, while another team of agents went after the counterfeiters.
For two days West and Gordon followed the Cotter’s trail, trying to lessen the gang’s twenty-four hour lead. Two men traveling fast and light could cover a lot of territory, but the Cotters knew the area and were able to continue on after dark. West and Gordon were forced to halt as soon as they lost the light for fear of losing the trail, but they made up for it during the day by riding hard.
*****
Several hundred yards to the East of the trail, West spotted a shallow ravine bordered by low, scrubby oak trees. Knowing they may not get another chance to refill fill their canteens before dark, he veered toward the water.
It was hot. Jim took off his jacket and hung it over his saddle horn. He and Artemus left the horses to drink and moved a few yards upstream to fill their canteens. As he walked Jim unbuttoned his blue shirt, by the time he reached a sandy spot by the stream, he had pulled it off and thrown it over a log. With a quick flip of his wrist his hat landed next to the discarded shirt.
Jim dropped to his knees by the water and filled his canteen. Sweat glistened as it slid down his spine and disappeared. The sun beat down on his muscular shoulders threatening to burn his freckled back.
Leaning forward, Jim cupped the clear water in his hands and laved his face. The water trickled down his neck and chest. Taking the path of least resistance, it traced its way down the center of his well defined chest parting into smaller rivulets when it met the taught lines of his abdomen.
Unnoticed, a large raven watched the half-naked man intently with its brilliant blue eyes. It was like the bird was hungry for something it couldn’t have, a morsel that was off limits, but still desired.
After filling his canteen Artemus grabbed Jim’s shirt and tossed it to the younger agent as he stood up. When the two men turned around, Artemus called softly to Jim, pointing to the large black bird perched at the top of a gnarled tree.
“What did I tell you? There it is again!” Artemus spoke quietly to his partner.
The raven watched them with its intense blue eyes. It fluffed its feathers and then flew down to drink from the edge of the stream across from the horses. The horses snorted uncertainly and moved away from the bird. The raven let out a hoarse croak, spooking the horses which clambered out of the shallow ravine. Artemus’s chestnut settled down quickly and wandered over to a patch of grass to graze, but Jim’s black continued to watch the bird. Head high and ears pricked forwards, Blackjack’s nostrils flared as he caught a puzzling scent.
Jim glanced from the bird to the horses, frowning slightly. The horses’ reaction to the bird was unusual and puzzled him. First Artie, now the horses. That raven’s got everybody on edge. It’s almost like that it wants us to notice it.
“Let’s get moving,” he said to Artie as they approached the horses.
Jim hooked the full canteen to his saddle, and then grabbing the horn and cantle he leapt lightly into the saddle. Artemus followed more slowly, watching the raven as it spread its wings and took flight. The bird spiraled higher and higher, but remained directly over them. Still watching the raven, he mounted his horse and urged it into a trot after his departing partner.
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The Cotter brothers had become a well known scourge to the area for the past few years. Like flies to decaying flesh they had attracted a sizable band of ruffians who lived outside the law, stealing whatever they needed and killing any who got in their way. Marion Cotter, a rough, sun-baked man in his early forties, was a natural leader and organized the men into effective gangs that moved through the territory raiding small towns for supplies and attacking passing stage coaches for money.
Marion Cotter and his younger brother, William, figured they would make some easy money when they were approached by a local counterfeiter who needed protection for his passers. Providing an armed escort for the men who were transporting the counterfeit money to the larger cities west of the Rockies should not prove too challenging. With enough guns, highway robbers and even Indians would think twice about attacking the travelers.
The other end of the deal was controlled by Morris Lohman, a skilled craftsman who, after working for many years at the Denver mint, decided to give the government some competition. Southern Arizona was made to order. It was sparsely populated, but still close enough to a number of major cities that could be used to filter the money into general circulation. Lohman did not relish the idea of involving a bunch of rough outlaws like the Cotter gang, but realized that his passers would be vulnerable while traveling. The agents the Cotters had discovered demonstrated the need for protection and secrecy.
After discovering that the government agents were cognizant of their activity, Lohman and Cotter decided to split up and meet some seventy miles to the northwest, outside of the small town of North Bend. There they could establish a new base of operations in the barn of Lohman’s cousin. Morris Lohman and the four passers set out on the well traveled main road that ran northwest from Blue Water to North Bend skirting a small chain of the mountains to the east. They had most of the printing supplies and tools hidden inside crates and barrels. Everything was loaded on two wagons each pulled by a sturdy carthorse. With a few artfully arranged burlap bags filled with grain, the counterfeiters easily passed for farmhands transporting goods to market.
The press, plates and printed money went with Dennis Finley, Lohman’s right hand man, under the protection of the Cotter gang. They were taking the rougher path, through the arid foot hills, then over the mountains by way of a little used pass to North Bend. After they rejoined each other, the passers, accompanied by members of the Cotter gang, would take the counterfeit money and continue west into California.
*****
The sun was melting into the dusty landscape. It would be dark soon, but Marion Cotter was unconcerned. The moonlight was enough for him and his men to navigate through the familiar country. They knew these hills well, their primary camp was only ten miles away, but that was not there destination. Cotter wanted to cover a few more miles before they stopped for the night. He knew the government agents could travel faster during the day than his band escorting the wagon loaded with money and supplies. Traveling after dark would allow him to increase his lead back to nearly eight miles. Tomorrow would be the critical day for the hunters and the hunted.
He hadn’t been surprised when Rusty had galloped up, after riding hard from Blue Water, where he had been keeping an eye on the abandoned hideout, to report the arrival of additional agents to his boss. Rusty’s horse was lathered in sweat and both horse and rider were caked with dust. Marion Cotter frowned slightly when Rusty told him of the two agents snooping around the old shed where the Cotters had left the bodies. Two more agents, Marion Cotter thought. We only got outa there just in time. If they’re after blood, they’ll be following us not Lohman.
Cotter had smiled to himself as he considered his options, then called to his brother, “Hey, William! Rusty says there’s a couple of agents likely to be coming after us. You ‘n a couple men want some target practice up at the ridge?”
*****
“You think they’re still back there, Mr. Cotter?” Ben asked nervously. He was the newest members of the gang and this was his first job with them.
Marion Cotter studied the shaggy-haired youth and smiled to himself, “You can bet on it. Them Federals won’t give up that easy.” He looked over at his brother, William, who rode at the head of a small knot of men a few yards away, “Hey, William, why don’t you take Ben here with you tomorrow. He’s a might worried about the Feds. Seeing them die should set him at ease!”
The group surrounding William laughed. “Like shooting ducks at a gallery,” one of the men grinned.
Dennis Finley left the wagon he had been riding alongside, urging his horse into a canter until he caught up with the brothers. “When you planning to take them out?” he asked.
Finley was a short, nervous man. He looked out of place amongst the outlaws dressed in a dark suit, matching vest and dove gray silk puff tie. His thinning hair was covered by a bowler hat. He too was uneasy about the agents following them and did not like the cavalier attitude of this band of ruffians. Like Morris Lohman, he would have preferred to distance himself from them.
“It’s not so much a matter of when, but where,” the elder brother answered. “We’ll be passing through a defile tomorrow. William’ll hang back with a few men and pick them off as they pass through.”
“Won’t they be suspicious of a trap? These are government agents, not a couple of two-bit deputies still wet behind the ears,” Finley objected.
“They won’t have a choice. The south side of the ridge is faced by sheer cliffs. Not too high, but no way can you get a horse, or even a man, over them without going twenty miles outta your way. Them agents ain’t gonna risk losing us by doing that! The north side is sloped so William and his men will be able to get up above the Feds. It’ll give the boys some target practice.”
No one noticed a raven perched in a scrubby tree. As the last of the gang passed by, the raven spread its wings and flew south.
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