The Riders of the Canyons

Start writing...Riders of the Purple Sage: A Tale of Frontier Justice

The sun bled across the Utah horizon, staining the endless sage in shades of deep violet. The wind hummed through the dry brush in low, mournful tones like a ghost choir singing of broken promises and lost dreams.

Cole Jackson wiped the sweat from his brow and squinted into the dusk. Ahead, the ground fell away into a broad canyon, the sage glowing purple in the dying light. He rested his gloved hand on the butt of his Colt and turned to his companions.

There were five of them in all: ragged men, hard-eyed and silent. Each rode a weary but strong mustang bred for these unforgiving lands. They were lawmen in name only—deputized by the nearest town of Dry River, but everyone knew they were more vigilantes than sheriffs.

"We’re close," said Amos, the eldest, with a scar like a lightning bolt down his cheek. "Trail’s fresh. He’s headed for Devil’s Pass."

Cole nodded grimly. "That bastard won’t get far. He murdered old Sally in cold blood. No trial's gonna save him now."

No one argued. Justice in Dry River was what you made of it. And in the canyon lands, the law was often a six-shooter.

They pressed on in silence, the twilight deepening into a velvet blue. The air cooled sharply. Coyotes called in the distance, yipping and howling as if mocking the men’s grim purpose.

At Devil’s Pass, they paused. The rock walls were jagged and narrow, funnelling travelers into a bottleneck. Cole raised a hand, signaling the others to dismount. He listened carefully.

Then he heard it: the faint scrape of boots on rock.

"He's in there," Cole whispered.

They spread out, rifles at the ready. Cole moved forward slowly, boots crunching on gravel. He felt the tension in his chest like a coiled snake.

"Sam Grady!" he shouted into the gloom. His voice echoed off the canyon walls. "You’re done runnin’. Come out and face us!"

Silence. Then a voice, cracked and desperate:

"Go to hell, Jackson! You and your damned riders!"

A muzzle flash burst in the dark—a single shot, aimed badly. The bullet sparked off rock well short of Cole’s position.

"Hold your fire!" Cole called to his men. He stepped forward. "Sam, don’t be a fool. You know what you did. There’s no mercy for murderers out here."

Another shot rang out. This time it whined past his ear. He didn’t flinch.

"Cover me," he ordered Amos. He drew his Colt and advanced into the pass.

Sam Grady was crouched behind a fallen boulder, his face pale in the moonlight, eyes wide with panic. He was shaking. His pistol wavered in his grip.

"Don’t do it," Cole said evenly. "Drop it. End it clean."

Sam snarled, tears welling up. "She was gonna tell! She was gonna ruin everything!"

Cole didn’t answer. He just watched the man’s hand.

Sam’s eyes flicked sideways, as if gauging an escape. His hand twitched. That was enough.

Cole fired once. The report was deafening in the narrow pass. Sam fell back, hitting the ground with a final ragged exhale.

The wind roared through the pass, stirring the sage.

Cole lowered his Colt. He stood over the body, jaw set hard. His men approached slowly, quiet and grim.

"That it, then?" Amos asked.

Cole nodded. "That’s it."

Amos spat into the dirt. "A damn shame. But you did right."

"Law or no law, she deserved justice," Cole said. He holstered his weapon.

They buried Sam in the canyon, marking the grave with a pile of stones. No one spoke as they worked. When they were finished, the riders mounted up.

The ride back to Dry River was long and silent. The purple sage rolled past on either side, endless and indifferent. Above them, the stars came out, cold and brilliant.

Cole thought of Sally—an old woman who had taken him in when he was near starved, who treated every drifter to coffee and biscuits. He thought of how she died with Sam’s knife in her chest.

There was no court in Dry River that would have convicted Sam even if they’d dragged him in alive. He had friends on the town council. That’s why Cole and his riders had done what they did.

When they finally reached Dry River, the town was asleep. They rode down the single dusty street, past the saloon with its shuttered windows, the silent general store, the little church with its tilted steeple.

Cole dismounted at the sheriff’s office. He looked at his men.

"Go on home," he told them. "I’ll write the report."

Amos touched his hat. "See you tomorrow, Cole."

One by one, the others rode off into the night.

Cole watched them go, then turned and went inside. He sat at the battered desk, lit the lamp, and began to write.

“Sam Grady. Wanted for murder. Resisted arrest. Shot and killed at Devil’s Pass.”

He paused. The wind rattled the window. He swallowed hard, then added:

“Justice served.”

He signed his name, blew out the lamp, and stepped back into the dark. The sage rustled all around the town like an ocean of secrets, purple under the moonlight, waiting for the next man to try and outrun the truth.