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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Blood Valley
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“Yes, sir. I 'spect he was an honest man, and his boys, too. But them Rockinghorse riders say they caught 'em with the stole cattle, and Farris and his boys can't rise up and talk to tell no different story, now can they?”
The Doc, he looked hard at me. “What do you intend doing about this . . . outrage, Sheriff?”
“Nothin' I can do, Doc. You know as well as me that hangin' a rustler or a cow thief is still as yet legal out here.”
Doc Harrison mumbled something about livin' in the dark ages where law and order was concerned. Then he strung together a line of cusswords that would do any drunk puncher up proud. I never even knowed doctors and such knew them words.
I didn't know what to say, so I kept my mouth closed, and just let the Doc run hisself out of cusswords.
“I'll take these bodies on down to Truby's, Doc. Then I reckon it's up to me to break the news to the Widder Farris. He was married still, wasn't he?”
“Unfortunately, yes, he was. But I should imagine Jean or Miss Maggie is already with the bereaved.”
I knew what that word meant. Least he hadn't flung nothin' at me like that dis-concerted thing.
 
 
Just to be on the safe side, I rode over to the Quartermoon spread and asked Miss Pepper if she'd like to ride over to the Widder, Farris's with me. I wanted them astride-ridin' females to know I was about halfways taken.
Mister Rolf, he shook his head at my tellin' of the news. “I worry about you, Sheriff. This valley is going to run red with blood before long, and you're going to be caught up right in the middle of it all.”
“That's part of my job, Mister Baker. And I ain't never backed away from a job yet.”
“Yes,” he smiled grudgingly. “You do have a bulldog tenacity about you. It's a very admirable trait, to be sure.”
I mumbled something. Hell, I don't know what it was he'd just said!
“But,” Mister Rolf said, “my daughter is quite smitten with you. And I'm rather fond of you myself, and so is Martha. We would not like to see you hurt . . . or killed,” he added grimly.
I didn't wanna appear like I was bein' smartalecky, but gettin' killed wouldn't thrill me all that much, neither.
'Bout that time Pepper come out and we pulled out. I'd left Critter at the spread and drove a buggy, with Pepper sittin' close beside me. Sittin' that close, I was proud I'd taken me a good bath the night before over to the Chinaman's place.
We'd been gettin' chummier and chummier as the days drifted by, and both of us knowed something was gonna happen between us . . . so we had taken to bein' real proper with each other.
Last time we'd embraced and kissed, both of us had started a-grabbin' hold of things that was best not grabbed a-hold of by two people who wasn't hitched proper. Unless the female was a soiled dove, that is. Then it didn't make no difference what a feller grabbed a-hold of. Or got grabbed.
But Miss Pepper wasn't no soiled dove, and I was bound and determined to treat her like a lady . . . whether she wanted to be treated thataway, or not.
Lots of men think that a woman don't have no awakenin' feelin's like a man. I always figured that for bulldooky. They got feelin's that are sometimes stronger than a man's Not that I was no expert hand when it come to women, I wasn't. But ever since Mary Lou Robinson took me in her pa's barn one Sunday afternoon and commenced to show me the difference between boys and girls, I been plumb amazed at how inventive womenfolks can get at times.
And damned demandin', too!
I recollect one time down in . . . Miss Pepper, she picked that time to look at me.
“Why, Cotton! You're actually blushing!”
“Am not!” I knowed I was, but damned if I was gonna admit it.
“You are too.”
“It's the sun, that's all.”
“Crap!” she said daringly. I give her a dark look—a woman could get
too
bold. “Cotton, if you got any darker, you'd pass for an Indian. Come on!” She tickled me in the ribs and I about dropped the reins. “You can tell me.”
“Pepper, now, you better quit that stuff. You remember where it got us last time.”
“I rather enjoyed it. Didn't you?” she teased, leanin' closer and blowin' in my ear.
I tell y'all, sometimes it's hard to remain a gentleman.
“I bet you were thinking of another girl, now, weren't you?”
Reckon how she knew that? “As a matter of fact, I was thinkin' of a girl I knowed back in grade school.”
“Oh. Well. I see. Were you enthralled with her, Cotton?”
“I was plumb
amazed
at some of her.”
“What an odd statement.”
“I guess so. Pepper, is there some land for sale around here? Maybe an established spread that somebody wants to unload for a fair price?”
“Yes.” She smiled at me, her blues twinkling. “Are you planning on staying, Cotton?”
“I been thinkin' about it.”
She touched my arm. “I hope you never leave.”
There come the goo again.
 
 
Sure enough, Miss Jean and Miss Maggie was already at the little Farris spread.
The cowboy who was told by Miss Jean that she could stomp her own snakes was standin' outside by the corral when we pulled up.
“That's the foreman at Arrow,” Pepper told me, “Jesse Bates. He was a cavalryman during the recent . . . unpleasantness between the States. He rode for the Gray. An officer, I believe.”
The unpleasantness? One hell of a war, if you's to ask me. But I figured he'd been in the Army; that would account for the way he sat his saddle.
She said, “He's a good man and a good person. And quick with a pistol, too.”
And that was good to know, too. “All them Arrow hands I seen shaped up in my mind to be some pretty salty ol' boys.”
“They'll fight,” Pepper agreed. “Just as will the men who ride for my father and brother. They're not paid gunhands, but to a man, they're loyal to the brand. Most of Father's hands have been with him a long time. He only hires others when they have to make a drive, and sometimes during branding.”
Pepper introduced me to the tall foreman and we howdied and shook. He sized me up while I was doin' the same to him. I got the feelin' that this Jesse Bates would be rough as a cob if a man was to push him. And I could detect just a hint of suspicion or wariness in his eyes as he give me the once-over. But I didn't take no offense at it, it was a natural thing to do.
When damn near every man you seen was packin' iron, it's a good thing to know how the other man carries hisself. And hell, he didn't know, really, what side I was on. But without his sayin' it out loud, I could tell he'd heard of me down the line.
He might have even taken a trip or two down the hoot-owl trail before settlin' down. Lots of men have.
“The missus is takin' it pretty hard,” Jesse said. “And the regular hands Farris has workin' for him is talkin' up trouble. They're over to the bunkhouse. You'd better talk to them. Sheriff, see if you can settle them down. They're all good cowhands, but up against the Rockinghorse gunslicks, they won't have a chance.”
That made sense to me. I liked a man who knowed when to fight and when to back off and ruminate on the matter facin' him. Although I sometimes jumped right in without thinkin'. I knew how Farris's men was feelin'. I'd been there a time or two.
Pepper with me, I spoke to the widder woman. There was a whole passel of females in the house with her. As soon as I tipped my hat and stayed a respectable time, I got the hell out of there. I just wasn't no good when it come to consolin' folks after a death. Pepper stayed with the women and me and Jesse strolled over to the bunkhouse.
Sure enough, them hands was cleanin' guns and fillin' up belt loops with .44 rounds.
To a man, they give me some fairly bleak looks.
“You boys plannin' on startin' a war all by yourselves?” I asked.
“Law won't do nuttin',” one hand said sourly. “So I guess that leaves it up to us, right, Sheriff?”
“The law
cain't
do nothin',” I told him, holdin' my temper in check. Not something I'm real good at doin'. But this hand was speakin' out of anger and frustration, and I knowed it. Wasn't no personal slight agin' me. “You boys know how it is out here, just as good as me. Sure, it was a setup, I know that. And if I thought it'd do any good, I'd arrest all them that done the deed. But Judge Barbeau would just cut them loose. There ain't no evidence to prove the Rockinghorse bunch done wrong. Think about it from the law's side.”
They had stopped war-preparation and was lookin' at me, listenin'. And I knew I'd better say whatever it was I was gonna say right. “It's spring, boys. The Widder Farris needs you here. There's cattle to be brung in, shifted to the high country. Cuttin' and brandin' to be done. She can't do that by herself.”
I could see that they agreed with me, but they was men with men's feelin's. They'd been struck at, and now they wanted to strike back. But I knew they didn't have a snowball's chance in Hell of comin' out of it alive.
“Now, look boys . . . it's gonna come down to a war. You know it, and I know it. But now ain't the time for that. What you all have to do is get organized, get together. Little ranchers, farmers, sheepmen . . . you all got to start pullin' in double harness. You got to get strong. You got to be able to back up your beliefs with more than mouth. And more than that, you got to start bein' real careful not to let none of these high-paid gunslicks pull you into tryin' to match 'em on the draw. I figure that's comin' next. You boys followin' me?”
“Makes some sense,” an older hand said. I figured him for the foreman. “Keep talkin', Sheriff.”
Jesse Bates was leanin' up agin' the bunkhouse wall, lookin' at me. But this time, there was a different light in his eyes. All the earlier suspicion was gone from his face.
“Maybe you boys can't match the Circle L and the Rockinghorse with gun-speed—damn few men can—but if all of you got together, all thinkin' alike, you'd have them outnumbered.” I waved a hand. “Four men here, two there, six over yonder—it starts to add up then.”
“I got to agree with you,” a puncher said. “But I dearly hate that gawddamn barbed wire them nesters is stringin' around the valley.”
There was a low mumble of agreement with that. The day when farmer and rancher was goin' to get along real nice was still some years away. But maybe it could start right here in this valley. It was worth a try.
“I hate it worser. I got tangled up in it once. But the wire is here to stay, and we're all gonna be seein' more of it. You can't blame a nester for wantin' to protect what he planted.”
We talked some more, and I could feel the fight slowly leavin' out of the hands. I was feelin' some better when me and Jesse walked back to the corral to wait for the women to come out of the house.
Miss Jean, Miss Maggie, and Miss Pepper soon joined us.
Jesse, he jerked a gloved thumb at me. “The sheriff, he pulled the fuse outta the dynamite. The hands is calmed down right smart.” Briefly, he explained to the women what I'd said about bandin' together for strength as well as protection.
I was conscious of all them women lookin' at me real close.
Pepper looked at me and smiled. “So you can not only use a gun with the best of them, but you're a peacemaker as well.”
I grinned. “You reckon that's why a Colt is called a Peacemaker?”
Chapter Eight
The mood of the town, at least the biggest portion of it, was ugly after the double-hangin' and the shootin' of the young man. And folks were, for the first time, openly choosin' up sides.
Me, I was glad to see that part of it. Now, when it come down to the nut-cuttin', I'd be able to know who was lined up solid behind who. Helps relieve that itchy feelin' you get in the small of your back.
And folks was definitely makin' their choices known, and they wasn't makin' no bones about it, neither.
It surprised me some, although later thinkin' on it, it shouldn't have, but Miss Mary at the Wolf's Den lined up square behind the Circle L and the Rockinghorse crews. The man who ran the gun shop, he was with them, too, as was the man who owned the livery stable and the lumber mill. It just kinda crisscrossed the street, back and forth. But more was on the side of peace than was on the side of Mills and Lawrence.
The funeral was a right nice one. But me and the boys skipped the church services. I just couldn't sit through another of the Reverend Dolittle's long-winded sermons. I knowed a preacher once who liked to say that more souls was won in the first five minutes and more souls lost in the last five minutes of preachin'. I figure that preacher knowed what he was talkin' about. He kept them talks of his short and to the point—'specially when there was eatin' on the grounds. He didn't like for the fried chicken to get too cold.
Course, he never ate none of Miss Pepper's chicken, neither.
The fellow who run the little weekly two-page paper—
The Doubtful Informer
—he come out squarely on the side of law and order, runnin' some pretty hot pieces about men who think they're better than other folks and who think they're above the law. Bernard Pritcher was his name. He was a feisty little feller. I went to see Mister Pritcher.
“Mister Pritcher, I'm right proud you run this here article in the paper, but don't you think you could have calmed 'er down just a mite? The way I see it, you just about called A.J. and Matt lowdown sons of bitches. I mean, you're settin' yourself up to get burned out or shot or something awful.”
“Young man, the pen is mightier than the sword.”
“Say what?”
Pritcher, he adjusted his glasses and took a deep breath.
“Hinc quam sic calamus saevior ense, patet,
Sheriff.”
Only thing I understood out of that mess was the word Sheriff. I didn't know whether to ask him if he was sick or to haul off and slap the piss out of him for cussin' me. “Did you just swaller a bug or something?”
He smiled. “No, Sheriff. Let me explain. Cervantes said . . . you are, of course, familiar with Cervantes?”
“Oh, hell, yeah! Holed up one winter with him up near Fort Peck.”
Pritcher laughed. “Very funny, Sheriff. You have a wonderful sense of humor.”
“Yeah, that's me. One laugh after another.”
“Cervantes said, ‘Let none presume to tell me that the pen is preferable to the sword.' But then Robert Burton wrote what I just quoted you. The pen worse than the sword. Then in
Richelieu
, act two, Bulwer-Lytton wrote the line, ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.'”
“Do tell?”
“Yes. Sheriff Cotton, I am not afraid of hooligans and rowdies. I firmly believe that the truth shall make you free.”
“Yeah? I'll tell you something else it'll do, Mister Pritcher. It'll get your ass killed sometimes, too.”
“Poppycock and balderdash, Sheriff!” he hollered. “The people are guaranteed a free press. And I shall ring loudly the bell of freedom and liberty.”
The little man was workin' up to a full head of steam. I wanted to cut him off 'fore he topped the grade. “Mister Pritcher, are you any kin to the Reverend Sam Dolittle?”
“What? Why, no. Why do you ask, Sheriff?”
“Just curious. Listen, can you print something up for me?”
“Certainly.”
I handed him the paper I'd printed the words on and he read it quick. “Will I be allowed to correct the spelling. Sheriff?”
“Oh, sure. And word it different if you want to. I just want folks to be able to understand it.”
“Oh, they'll understand, all right. It's free of charge, Sheriff.” He smiled. “I want to see the faces of the Circle L and the Rockinghorse hoodlums when they read this.”
“For a fact, they ain't none of them gonna be too happy about it.”
“Did you OK this with the town council?”
“Sure did. I just left George Waller's place of business.”
“That's all I needed. The posters will be ready in two days.”
“Thank you.”
Me, I went courtin' Miss Pepper. I figured, and figured right, that when I started havin' them notices tacked up all over the big valley, I was gonna be plenty busy.
NOTICE—THESE RULES GO INTO EFFECT RIGHT NOW
 
NO SHOOTING OFF GUNS IN THE TOWN OF
DOUBTFUL.
NO GALLOPING HORSES IN TOWN.
NO HORSE RACING IN TOWN.
REIN YOUR HORSE IN FAVOR OF PEOPLE
WALKING IN THE STREET.
VIOLATORS WILL BE JAILED AND FINED.
Me and Rusty and De Graff and Burtell, we spent one whole afternoon tackin' up them notices all over the valley. The boys didn't mind it none, anything they could do from the hurricane deck of a horse was all right with them.
Then we sat back and waiting for the action to get started.
It was just after breakfast, and we was sittin' in front of the office when Rusty poked me in the ribs. “Look who's gonna be the first ones to test the new rules, Sheriff.” He pointed up the street.
A.J. Junior and two hands from the ranch was just comin' into view, turnin' their horses onto the main street of town.
“You reckon they've seen the signs?” De Graff asked.
“They've seen 'em. They ain't blind. We plastered them signs all over the valley. But them two with Junior?” I couldn't make neither of them out. Only way I recognized Junior was his horse.
“I don't know 'em,” Burtell said, squintin' his eyes. “But I can tell from this distance that they're hardcases.”
As they come closer, I silently agreed with Burtell. 'Cause I knowed both of them ol' boys. The gunhand ridin' the dun was Ike Burdette. The other was Dave Tunsall. Both of them Texas gunfighters; and both of 'em mean as snakes.
I shifted my chew and spat into the street. Then I informed the boys who they was.
Burtell, he had just finished rollin' him a smoke and lickin' it closed. He lit up just as Rusty said, “I heard of 'em both. But I can't believe just the two of them are here to start something.”
I shook my head, not takin' my eyes off the three riders. “I don't think so either. I think they're in town to test the waaters.”
We sat on the chairs and benches in front of the office and watched as Junior and his escort rode slowly by.
“Mornin, Junior!” I called out cheerfully. “Nice day, ain't it?
Junior, he give me a look that silently told me where I could stick my right friendly salutations. That'd probably be uncomfortable, too.
“Mornin', Dave, Ike!” I called.
Them Texas gunfighters, they knew me, but they looked at me and kept on ridin'. Plumb unfriendly of them.
“Surly bunch of bastards!” De Graff said.
“Hope y'all have a nice day in town!” I called. “And behave yourselves, too,” I added, pushin' just a little bit.
None of the three paid much attention to my words. Just kept on ridin' and turned and reined in at the hitchrail in front of the Wolf's Den. They disappeared into the batwings.
“Do we amble on over there with 'em?” Rusty asked.
“Nope. I ain't gonna push no more as long as they behave themselves. Time's gonna come for shootin' soon enough.
“Well, right yonder is young Hugh Mills,” Burrell said, noddin' his head towards the other end of the long main street.
I looked. I'd seen Young Hugh a time or two in town. He was a surly-lookin', pouty-mouthed, always-sulled-up young man. But my, my, he had him two of the fanciest short guns I ever did see. Wore 'em low and tied down. And I'd heard that he could use them, too.
If I was to work at it real hard, and I'd have to work at it, 'cause I never was one to envy much on other folk's possessions, I could surely covet them guns of Young Hugh's. They was a matched set of Peacemaker .45's, engraved and ivory-handled and restin' in embossed leather holsters. Lordy, but they was some fine!
That set would cost the average cowpoke a good three months' wages, or more.
“I heard he can use them guns,” I said.
“Yes, he can,” De Graff answered me. “He's uncommon quick. And just like Junior, he's spoiled, uppity, and about half nuts. Last year, Hugh rode down a young Mex boy who was out tendin' sheep. Just rode him down and trampled him to death. He's a bad one, Sheriff. And unpredictable.”
“No charges brung agin him for the death of that boy?”
“Sure. But Judge Barbeau cut him loose,” Rusty told me. “Hugh told the judge that he lost control of his horse. It was an accident.”
“Somebody ought to shoot that judge,” Burtell spoke aloud everybody's feelin's. He looked at the two men with Hugh. “Anybody know them two with him?”
“The one on the right is called Bitter Creek,” I said. “The other one is known as Tulsa Jack. I think his real name is Wolcott. They're both quick with a gun.”
And I silently wondered how many more gunslingers was gonna show up in the big valley. Place was beginnin' to look like a convention spot for killers.
I cut my eyes as George Waller come rushin' up the boardwalk. He was all in a sweat for this early in the day. He was movin' like a man with a powerful message to deliver.
“Sheriff!” he panted. “Injun Tom Johnson checked into the hotel late last night. The situation is just simply getting out of hand.”
“Yeah,” I sat still, mentally digestin' the news of the gunfighter called Injun Tom. He got his name 'cause he preferred squaws over white women. Rumor had it that Injun Tom had fathered a whole tribe of younguns over the years; and I didn't doubt it none. Injun Tom was a bad one, too . . . just bad through and through. And ugly! Lordy, Tom was ugly. It was said he was so ugly his momma had to tie a piece of salt meat around his neck to attract flies.
Gettin' to my feet, I said, “You boys mind the store. Me and Rusty's gonna move around some.”
Walkin' up the boardwalk, Rusty said, “Reckon when Billy the Kid is gonna show up? Damn near ever'body that is somebody with a short gun is already done arrived.” He shook his head. “And the worst of 'em ain't made it yet.”
I knew who he was talkin' about. Jack Crow. I wasn't lookin' forward to his arrival.
“I hear that Billy's gone plumb bad now that Tunstall and McSween's dead.”
“So I heard. He's gone to stealin' horses and rustlin' cattle. Somebody'll get him.”
“Somebody always does. There's always somebody just a tad better with a gun, or just plain lucky.”
“I heard his friend Pat Garrett is now sayin' that Billy's no good.”
“He ought to know, I reckon. I seen Pat a couple of times when I was down south on a cattle buy. I hear he's gonna run for Sheriff of Lincoln County.”
“Do tell? I thought he was a lawman all along.”
“Naw. Last time I seen him he was tendin' bar at Beaver Smith's saloon at Fort Sumner.”
“Well, I'll just be damned! Stories do get started, don't they? Next you gonna tell me that Billy wasn't raised up by the Apaches.”
“Where'd you hear that? Billy was born in New York. He didn't come west 'til he was about thirteen. Didn't kill his first man 'til a couple of years ago. '77, I think it was.”
“Ain't that something? I read in one of them penny-dreadful books that he was toted off by 'Paches and raised up with 'em.”
“I read where I rode with the James Gang, too, Rusty. But I ain't never set my eyes on Jesse or Frank. And ain't never been to Missouri, neither.”
“I read that same book,” Rusty said solemnly. “That's what I was thinkin' about that day I braced you over at the saloon. Sheriff, you got one hell of a reputation.”
I didn't reply to that, for my eyes had found yet another hardcase leanin' up agin' the front of the Wolf's Den. “See that ol' boy over yonder, Rusty?”
“The stranger by the batwings?”

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