Blood Valley (11 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Blood Valley
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“Yeah. That's Pete Clanton, the Montana gunhand. And wherever Pete goes, you can bet Bob Clay ain't very far away. Them two is close; first cousins, I think.” I give out with a long sigh.
Place sure was fillin' up in a hurry . . . with the wrong kind of people.
“What's the matter with you? 'Sides bein' in love, that is?” Rusty grinned. “And havin' Miss Maggie and Miss Jean with the hots for your body.”
I didn't deny the love bit. But I ignored that last bit. “'Way my luck's been runnin' here of late, the third member of that nasty little group will probably be hangin' around close by, too. If so, I gotta arrest him.”
“You know this third person?”
“You've seen dodgers on him. His name is Al Long.”
Rusty whistled softly. “'Deed I have, Sheriff. He's 'posed to be snake-quick.”
“Yes, he is. And there he is.”
Rusty followed the direction of my eyes. “The man wearin' the buckskin shirt?”
“That's him.”
“Who's the man standin' beside him?”
“All I know is Nimrod. Far as I know, he ain't wanted for nothin'. That anybody can prove, that is.”
“Nimrod? Didn't he kill that rancher over in California?”
“Was accused of it, so I heard. But it was a fair fight, so-called. The rancher just wasn't no gunhand, that's all.”
“How you gonna handle it, Sheriff?”
“Only one way I know to handle it. Get the women and kids off the boardwalks, Rusty. There's gonna be a shootin'. I'll wait 'til you get things clear 'fore I make my move.”
Boardin' House Belle come tippin' up the boardwalk and batted her eyes at me, then stepped into a store. As if I didn't have enough on my mind without her makin' eyes at me.
Now, I wasn't gonna brace Al Long purely out of civic responsibility. . . although that did have something to do with it. The bottom line was that three-thousand-dollar reward on Al's head. And I aimed to use that money to stock my ranch.
Rusty, he was movin' quiet-like but swift up and down the boardwalks, clearin' the area of folks. Al, he still had his back to me, jawin' with some other hardcases. I didn't want no innocent people to get hit by stray bullets, and that happened a hell of a lot more times than people care to talk about.
I looked up at the second story of the Wolf's Den. A couple of soiled doves waved at me. I motioned them to get down and they done it.
Must have been a slow night for them gals to be up and about this early in the mornin'.
Just as I was about to step out into the street and holler for Al to give it up or drag iron, the fanciest hearse I ever did see come a-rollin' into town. It was deep polished black with glass sides—covered now to prevent breakage durin' transport—and lots of silver on it. Then I 'membered that Truby, he told me he had ordered one from a funeral parlor down south of us. The undertakers who'd sold it was named Harder and Stiff. That was an odd enough name for undertakers; but down in Cochise County, Arizona Territory, there was a funeral parlor run by two men called Ritter & Ream.
And then I got to thinkin'. Who was gonna be the first to ride in that fancy death-wagon . . . me, or Al Long?
But you can't dwell on stuff like that for very long . . . gets to be depressin'.
I checked the street, both sides, up and down, and it was clear. Steppin' off the boardwalk, I called out.
“Al Long!”
Al, he spun around, facin' me, his hands clawed, over his gun butts. He peered hard at me. “Cotton? Is that you, kid?”
“Yeah, it's me, Al.”
“I was told you was up in Montana.”
“I was. But now I'm here. Sheriff of Puma County. You're under arrest, Al. Stagecoach robbin', bank robbin', train robbin', and murder. Give it up, Al.”
He laughed at me. “And face a rope? That ain't no choice at all, Cotton. 'Sides, I don't think you're as good as your reputation.”
“One way to find out, Al.”
“Damn sure is, kid!” Then he grabbed for iron.
I was faster. But as he jerked iron, he ducked to one side and my slug whined off a horse trough. His bullet tore the hat right off my head. I stepped back and held off shootin' for fear I'd hit some onlooker standin' in a store a-gawkin'. Long, he popped up in an alleyway and fired just as I jumped to my left. His slug thudded into the building behind where I'd been standin'.
Al, he fired again, and again he missed, his slug bustin' out a window of the store.
I heard Boardin' House Belle give out a whoop that would put an Apache to shame and then she hit the floor. I could feel the vibration clear out in the street. I hoped to hell she wasn't dead. It'd take two teams of carpenters a full day to build a box big enough to hold her.
Not to mention a dozen hernias on the men havin' to tote it with her in it.
The lead really started flyin' and whinin' around my head as Al opened up with both pistols. But the street was wide and Al, while bein' fast, wasn't no real good pistol shooter at long range. Regardless, I done some rollin' and come up behind a fire barrel full of water. Gettin' to one knee, I cocked back and let it bark. One slug hit Al in the chest and the second one caught him in the shoulder. He was hard hit, but a long ways from bein' out of it.
Al, he staggered up to his feet and reached around behind him. I knowed that trick of his; he carried a third gun stuck down behind his belt, in the small of his back, under his buckskin shirt.
“You son of a bitch!” he cussed me, blood leakin' out of his mouth. “You've killed me. But you ain't gonna be hoss enough to stop my brothers.”
“Drop your gun, Al.”
“Hell with you!”
I waited until his pistol was in plain sight and he'd jacked the hammer back, then I shot him right between the eyes. He just sat down on the edge of the boardwalk, his head slumped between his legs, the pistol slippin' from dead fingers. He sat there, dead as a hammer.
Rusty, he come runnin' up just as Burtell and De Graff come up from the other side.
“Get the photo-grapher,” I told Burtell. “I want pitchers to show the U.S. Marshals.”
Injun Tom had stepped out of the hotel, standin' watchin'. Tunsall and Burdette and Bitter Creek and Tulsa had come out of the saloon to see the action. Injun Tom, he smiled—even that didn't do nothin' to improve his looks—and held out his hands, palms up, showin' me he wasn't takin' no part in nothin'. Yet.
I nodded at him and turned to face the men on the boardwalk in front of the Wolf's Den, across the street. They wasn't makin' no moves to join in, but I'm a right suspicious man at times.
“Clear the street or I'll have to figure you're all partners of Al Long!” I called out. “And we'll have us a slaughter right here and now.”
De Graff and Rusty was carryin' Henry rifles and they levered them. Them gunhands turned and walked back into the saloon.
Oh, they wasn't afraid. It just wasn't the right time.
A big crowd started gatherin' around. Truby, at the direction of the picture-takin' man from the studio, stuck a board behind Al Long to prop him up. Truby used a piece of string to tie Al's head back, then plopped his hat back on his head. The hat hid the twine, but left the hole in Al's head showin', the blood leakin' out.
The photo man, name of Langford, set up all his fancy equipment and began poppin' and puffin' up smoke takin' pictures of Al. 'Bout that time Doc Harrison come up. He waited until Langford was done, then he inspected the body, officially proclaimin' Al was dead.
I duly noted the time in my little notebook and had the Doc sign it and date it, all legal-like and proper.
Leo Silverman, he come out of his store, wipin' his hands on his apron. “You can show him off in my window, Martin,” he told the undertaker. Leo leaned over and sniffed at Al. “Until he starts turnin' ripe, that is.”
Truby looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders. “Suits me.” But I could tell the Doc, he didn't like the idea at all.
But that's the way it was back in the wild and woolly days. Most folks wanted to take a glance or two at dead outlaws. The ladies would go “oohh” and “aahh” and get all flustered and act like it offended 'em—with everybody knowin' it didn't. And the men would puff up and say something like, “He got what he deserved.” There just wasn't a whole hell of a lot in the way of entertainment in small western towns.
I went through Al's pockets and found enough to bury him decent—even if, when Al was alive, he wasn't decent. I give the money to Truby and he give me a receipt for it.
I took ever'thing else of Al's, stickin' his personal belongings in a bag that I'd give to the U.S. Marshals. Then I sent Burtell ridin' south to the telegraph office to wire the Marshals.
Boardin' House Belle, she came waddlin' out of the store and batted her eyes at me a time or two. “What a brave man you are, Sheriff,” she gushed. “So . . .
manly!”
Then she went trippin' off up the boardwalk.
“I do believe Miss Belle has taken a fancy to you, Sheriff Cotton,” George Waller said.
I wasn't fixin' to reply to that. “George, how come Doubtful don't have no telegraph office? It's the biggest town in the county.”
“The poles have been up for some time. But every time wire is strung, somebody pulls it all down.”
“Why do a damn fool thing like that? Is it Injuns doin' it?”
Bernard Pritcher come walkin' up just in time to hear me. “Certainly it is not Indians. Certain . . .
types
in the valley prefer to remain isolated from the rest of the world . . . and that is the truth.”
“Meanin' the Circle L and the Rockinghorse bunch?” I asked him.
“But of course.”
“But that don't make no sense to me at all, Mister Pritcher. Why do a damn fool thing like that?”
“Sheriff,” Pritcher said, puffin' up. It was lecture time agin. “The Circle L and the Rockinghorse led the drive to stop Doubtful from becoming the county seat. It's still in contest, but it looks like we are going to be the seat of county government. Now then, as isolated as we are, if a crime of some heinous nature was committed, before you became sheriff, by the time outside authorities got here, witnesses would have either changed their minds, or would have disappeared. We have a system of feudal barony here in the valley, Sheriff Cotton.”
Now, I didn't know what in the hell he just said, and from the look on Waller's face, he didn't neither.
But we both nodded our heads.
And with my head hangin' out bare, that reminded me that I needed a new hat. That .44 slug from Al's gun had tore the top plumb out of my good hat.
Pritcher, he walked off.
“Foodal
what?”
I asked George.
“Hell, don't ask me! Pritcher gets on them wordy rips of his and cain't nobody understand what the hell he's talkin' about.”
“North end of the street,” De Graff said softly.
I looked, then give out a long, slow sigh. Then I cussed under my breath in case they was ladies within range.
“What's the matter, Sheriff?” Waller asked.
“The Springer Brothers. Dan, Clemmet, Sid, and Barry. They must have just come up from New Mexico way. Last I heard, they was workin' the Lincoln County Wars.”
“Are they bad hombres?”
“Between the four of them, they've tallied more than a hundred kills, and that's con-firmed. So yeah, I'd say they was some bad.”
Waller, he turned a little green around the lips. “And did I hear that man you just killed say something about his brothers, Sheriff?”
“You sure did. Luther, Stan, and Cledus. Three of the most no-good men who ever hauled on a pair of boots. But they're quick with a gun.”
De Graff, he done some head-figurin'. “You know, Sheriff, just figurin' all these hardcases is gettin' paid, say, seventy-five dollars a month—and some of them is gettin' more than that—I've counted forty or more gunslicks. That's . . . well, damn close to thirty-five hundred dollars a month in wages for them alone. Not even the Circle L and the Rockinghorse can keep that up for very long.”
“But maybe long enough to see their plans come true,” I spoke with bitterness on my tongue.
“And their plans are . . . ?” George Waller asked.
“First off . . . to see us dead!”
Chapter Nine
As soon as Burtell got back from the telegraph office, I gathered the boys around me in the office and laid it out to them. Way things was shapin' up, I figured they ought to have a choice, and I give them one.
“I wouldn't hold it agin' none of you if you all was to quit, boys. You ain't gettin' paid enough to put your butts on the line. The way I see it, we're soon gonna have more than fifty gunfighters in this valley. It can't do nothin' 'cept get worser.”
“And you Sheriff?” De Graff asked. “What about you?”
“I'm gonna stick it out. But then, I never did have no sense to begin with. You boys can drift; find yourselves a nice peaceful job of work punchin' cows around.”
They all laughed at that, and I joined right in. Believe you me, there wasn't nothin' peaceful about bein' a cowhand. If a man wasn't fightin' rustlers and Injuns, he was fightin' rainstorms and tornaders, eatin' dust twelve hours a day, and beans and beef three times a day. At times, it got plain wearisome.
And if he was lucky, he was gettin' thirty-five dollars a month for it.
Rusty, he got up out of his chair and walked to the window, starin' out at the street. Without turnin' around, he said, “I been seein' me a little gal out in the country. Her pa has him a right nice farm. And I've had my eyes on a little piece of ground down south of here, 'bout twenty miles out. I want that ground. It could easy handle five hundred head of cows; raise me some horses, plant a garden. I figure I got me a stake in this town. So I ain't leavin'.”
Noddin' my head, I said, “Your choice.”
De Graff, he shifted his chaw around and looked square at me. “I like the idea of bein' a lawman. The right kinds of folks look up to you. Sorta look to a man to help them. I believe with this badge,” he pecked on the star, “that a man has to con-duct hisself right; so's kids and the such will have somebody outside the home to look up to. I'm stayin'.”
“Well, now, ain't that a right flowery speech,” Burtell said with a grin. He jerked a thumb toward De Graff. “I agree with whatever the hell it was he said. I'm stayin' put.”
I felt close to them ol' boys right at that moment. Like we was all part of a family. But I had to admit that it wasn't a right bright thing on our part, us stickin' around. Countin' the regular hands of the Rockinghorse and the Circle L, we was gonna be outnumbered about twenty-five to one when it came down to the nut-cuttin'. And them odds ain't good no matter how you look at them.
“Don't expect no hand-clappin' or medals to be hung on you when it's over,” I warned them. “Those of us who are alive, that is. When all the shootin' is done, and the smoke all blowed away, folks is gonna start lookin' at us strange-like.”
They nodded their heads. They knew what I was sayin' was true. After a town was all cleaned up, and it was safe for the ladies to stroll around unescorted, them that done the cleanin'-up usually didn't stick around long. 'Cause folks didn't have no more use for you. Human nature, I reckon, but it never did seem fair to me.
Maybe in this case, with Rusty and Burtell and De Graff bein' known by most, it might be some different, but I doubted it.
I had me an idea that'd been roamin' around in my noggin for a few days. It was gonna be a chancy thing on my part, but with all these gunslicks comin' into the valley, I felt it was something that I had to do.
So, the next mornin', leavin' Rusty in charge, I just, by God, done it!
 
 
The boys, they didn't like it none, and they wasn't hesitant a bit about tellin' me their feelings on the matter. But I been known to be right stubborn at times, so before first light, I was saddled up and movin' out.
I wasn't long outside of town when I seen what at least a few hands thought of them signs me and the boys tacked up.
Every sign I come to had been shot all to pieces. And a couple of them had been used in place of paper and cobs. That didn't set too well with me.
I headed north for the first job of the day, cuttin' across Arrow range and then before long, I was on Rockinghorse land. The regular hands, they'd had their breakfast before dawn and was out workin' cattle, gettin' ready for a gather. The smoke from brandin' fires could be smelled wherever I rode.
Mostly, the punchers would stop their work and stand and watch silent as I rode past, headin' for the big house of Matt Mills. Some of them spoke to me, and I returned the greetin', as pleasant as the morning. But I could feel the hate in the eyes of a whole bunch of them, too.
But I spoke to them, too, real pleasant-like. They didn't like it; I got a kick out of it.
The first gunslicks I met up with was Hank Hawthorne and Dick Avedon.
I reined up and greeted them.
They sat their horses and stared at me until Dick found his voice. “Cotton, you damned fool! You never did have no sense, but this mornin' just proves to me that you're gawddamn crazy!”
“Why?” I acted like I didn't know what he was talkin' about. “I'm peaceful, Dick. Besides, I'm the sheriff of this county.” More or less. “And I can ride wherever and whenever I please to ride. Right now, I'm headin' for a palaver with Mister Matt Mills. You two wanna ride along with me?”
They looked at one another, and finally, both of them grinned. Hank said, “You got more gall than Colonel Custer, Cotton. But yeah, we'll tag along. Somebody's gonna have to tote you back to town when Young Hugh shoots you full of holes.”
I grinned at them. “How's he gonna do that? Shoot me in the back?”
Dick, he shook his head. “Don't sell the kid short, Cotton. The boy is uncommon quick with a six-shooter.”
“I ain't seen none of his graveyards, Dick. All I've heard so far is mouth.”
They didn't reply to that. So we walked our horses, ridin' easy in the saddle, all of us enjoyin' the coolness of mornin' in the high-up country. I didn't ask what they'd been doin' out here so early, and neither of them volunteered any information on the subject.
“Fine spread,” I observed. “All that any man could want, I reckon. All I'd want.” I let that simmer silent for a minute or so, knowin' one of them would pick up on it. Another thing I'd learned about most gunhands is that they liked to brag some.
Hank, he looked at me and smiled. “Yes, but greed is sometimes the great motivator, my boy.”
Hank, he had him a full eighth-grade education, and he liked to talk big words; but I wasn't sure that all the time Hank knew just what all them words really meant.
Like a few of the other gunhawks now in the valley, Hank could be likeable . . . but he was a cold-blooded killer, and it was best to keep that out front at all times.
“Valley's fillin' with hardcases,” I tossed that one to them.
“That scare you, Cotton?” Dick asked, a not-too-pleasant grin on his face.
“Just scares me half to death, Dick. Why, I cried myself to sleep last night just thinkin' about how scared I was of people who ain't done an honest day's work in ten years.”
Hank, he looked insulted at that. “Ain't no need to get testy about it, Cotton. We're friendly this morning.”
“All right.” We rode along for a spell and then I said, “You boys is drawin' fightin' wages. Ain't neither one of you watched the ass-end of a cow in hears. You've fought in range wars; you've probably rode the hoot-owl trail a time or two. But you ain't never kilt no lawman—that I know of. Times is changin' some, boys. Slow-like, but a change is comin' on. The trains and the long wires, they're linkin' up lawmen all over the country. Now, as soon as one lawman is kilt in California or Montana, them sheriffs and deputies in Kansas and Louisiana know about it within a week or so. Places to run is gettin' harder and harder to find.”
“Where is all this jabber takin' us to, Cotton?” Dick asked.
“Either of you ever seen the jail up in Helena, Montana?”
They hadn't.
“Cost more'un ten thousand dollars to build.”
“So?” Hank asked, but he knew what I was gettin' at. Folks was gettin' awful sick and tired of outlaws.
“Well, that jail's got a bunch of cells, an exercise yard, big kitchen, and sleep-in quarters for the guards. Damn near escape-proof. Boys, you know the citizens out here are gettin' tired of lawlessness and all that it brings with it. Jesse and Frank got thousands of dollars of reward money on their heads. Clell Miller, Charly Pitts, Bill Chadwell and a whole host of others is rottin' in the ground, all shot to crap and back. The Youngers is in prison. Bill Longley was hanged down in Texas. Wes Hardin's in prison. Ya'll know what I'm talkin' about. Ain't neither one of you stupid.”
They didn't say nothin' for a long while, and they didn't look at me neither. But I could practically hear their minds workin' hard.
Hank, he looked over at me and said softly, “Cotton, it's all we know.”
“Yeah. But that don't make it right, boys. Lemme tell you both how this here thing is gonna go down. Me and my deputies might not come out of this alive. Some of us are probably gonna get killed. But not before we take a bunch of you with us. And you both know that crap writ in them dime novels is just that—crap! There ain't no gang, nowhere, no time,
ever
treed no western town. And it ain't never gonna happen neither. Now boys, them rules I writ up and tacked up around the county is gonna be enforced in Doubtful. If they're not, about a hundred or so townsfolks—all of 'em has fought Injuns and outlaws and been in the war—is gonna get their rifles and shotguns and blow you boys all to hell and gone.”
They both was quiet, both of them knowin' the truth in what I just said. It was just a little hard for them to swaller and I knew it. I'd have felt the same way, I reckon.
I didn't know if my words was gonna have much leverage with 'em or not. But I knowed I had to try to convince some of these ol' boys to give it up and ride on out.
If they didn't ride on, well, then, at least when I had to kill some of them, I could do it with a clear conscience and the certain knowledge that I had done my dead level best.
“You damn shore of yourself, ain't you, Cotton?” Dick asked.
“Pretty sure, Dick.” I kept my voice low and calm.
“All right. But what do we get if we was to just turn and ride on out?” Hank inquired.
“The knowledge that you won't be a part of any bloodbath, with innocent women and kids gettin' killed.”
“That ain't enough. You can't win this one, Cotton. Not this time, no way. There's too many of us. We could take you and your boys out just anytime we wanted the job done—and you know that, too.”
“Haufman could. He'd shoot me in the back. You boys might take me—and that's in some doubt, and
you
know that—but with ya'll, it'd be from the front, eyeball to eyeball. And I'd get lead in you, you both know that.”
“Thanks for that much, anyway,” Hank said. “But don't count on it. If we're paid to do a job of work with a gun, it'll get done the best and simplest way.”
So there it was. He was tellin' me that if it had to be done, he'd shoot me in the back if it just had to be. Well, it was good to know. Sort of.
“We'll think on what you said.” Dick looked at me. “For now, we'll ride on ahead, tell the others you're on your way in, and to let you come on in.”
“I'll appreciate that, boys.”
They was gone in a gallop, leavin' me alone for the next half hour or so. If I hadn't done nothin' else, I had at least planted a seed in their minds. There was another thing or two that I'd learned about the majority of gunfighters: they liked a sure thing.
It was a pretty ride to the mansion of Matt Mills. And for the last couple of miles, I stayed with the road. Mills kept it in damn good shape, scraped down and leveled out.
Pretty soon, I come up on the grand mansion of Matt Mills, and it was just as fancy as ol' A.J.'s palace. And looked just as out of place, even at this distance.
Any my, my, but there was a gang of them drawin' fightin' wages all gathered up around the house and the grounds, just sorta loungin' around, you might say. Tryin' not to look too obvious.
But it was so obvious it was almost funny. Howsomever, I kept a straight face. Laughin' at a situation like this was a good way to get plugged.
I guess it was good that I didn't have much goosiness in me, for if I had, I'd have turned around and got the hell out of there.
But I just rode right up and swung down, loopin' the reins around a hitchrail and then stared up at King Mills hisself, standin' on the big porch.

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