Blood Valley (13 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Blood Valley
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Mills, he spun around, turnin' his back to me for a time. When he turned to face me, his eyes were blazin' with fury. And I got the thought that this man just might not be carryin' no full load upstairs.
“But the land is
ours,
Sheriff! Mine and A.J.'s and Rolf's. This entire valley is
ours!
The three of us fought the battles, cleared the streams, muscled out the boulders and logs and other of nature's blockades. In more than twenty years, I've personally helped bury more than twenty-five men, good men, on this land. I gave, outright, my foreman, Kilby Jones, ten percent of my wealth, simply because he stood by me during the hard times and never complained. It's legal—had Stokes draw up the papers. Sheriff, I'm not a bad man.”
Matter of opinion, I thought, but had better sense than to say it out loud. It ain't wise to poke the bear in his own cave. “But Rolf Baker ain't joinin' with you and A.J. in this fight to control the valley,” I reminded him.
Agin, Mills calmed hisself, doin' it with some visible effort. “No. No, he isn't. But that didn't surprise me when he refused to join with A.J. and me. You see, Sheriff, of the three of us, Rolf, well, he was the thinker in the group, the planner. Oh, now, I'm not putting him down, don't misunderstand me. Rolf will fight if pushed, but it takes a lot of pushing. And, I suppose, with Rolf, well, he's content. Change doesn't bother him. I guess that contentment is the key word with Rolf.”
I didn't think that at all. But I didn't say it aloud. No, I just thought that Rolf Baker wasn't no greedy man, wasn't no blackhearted man.
But Mills, he read the words in my eyes.
With a long sign, he said, “Sheriff, it's been nice talking to you this morning. I have found you to be a much more intelligent man than I first thought.” He shook his head. “I wish . . .”
But I never did learn just what he wished. He put his back to me agin and stared out over the seemingly peaceful valley. It was like he knew that things was comin' to an end. Like all things do. But not bein' no deep thinker, I wasn't gonna point that out to the man.
Hell, maybe he thought he'd live forever. Some folks do. I've seen men like that before; seen 'em that even when death reached out with a bony hand to touch them, they wouldn't believe it.
Well, I'd been dismissed before, and knowed one when I seen it. So I stood up and tugged on my new hat. Mills, he turned around to look at me.
“Ain't no point in shakin' hands, is there, Mister Mills?”
That smile come to him agin. “No, Sheriff. I guess there is no point at all.”
“I'm right sorry about that, sir.”
“So am I, Sheriff. I have never wanted to be an enemy to the law.”
“You don't have to be now, sir.”
“Sometimes, Sheriff, a man runs out of choices. Now is one of those times.”
Noddin' my head at him, I stepped off the porch and down to the hitchrail. I buckled up and tied down and mounted. I looked at Matt Mills, still standin' on the porch, watchin' me.
“Were you planning on seeing A.J. today, Sheriff?”
“I had thought on it.”
“Take my advice and don't! You're a brave man, Sheriff, but no fool. I think you know that if you show up, alone, on Circle L land, you're a dead man.”
For once in my life, I didn't argue with advice. I just took it.
Chapter Ten
I stopped a clodhopper on his way to town, ridin' a mule, and asked him to stop by the office and tell whoever was in there that I would be in late—I might not even be back in town before the next morning.
He said he'd be glad to do it and we shook hands and went our own way. With me headin' cross-country for the Quartermoon spread.
I had Miss Pepper on my mind, and that was a right weighty thought, but a very pleasant one, as I rode.
Skirting the Rockinghorse spread I touched on the range of Miss Maggie and Miss Jean, then began to relax a tad once I got onto the Quartermoon range. It'd been a while since I'd give Critter his head, and Critter, he was a horse that liked to eat up the miles. So I'd run him awhile, then walk him, lettin' him blow, then we'd have at it agin. Both of us havin' fun, like a couple of kids.
I'd sorta had this trip in mind all the time, so I'd packed me a clean shirt and britches and drawers in my saddlebags 'fore I left out. And I always carried a little poke of food and a small coffeepot with me.
It was beautiful country, most especially this time of the year, with ol' Mother Nature beginnin' her renewal of the cycle of things. There was wildflowers by the millions, it seemed to me, of all colors, just winkin' and wavin' in the little breeze that blowed through the big valley off the high-up mountains.
This was the Big Lonesome, and it wasn't suited for ever'-body. But I enjoyed it. I enjoyed seein' a graceful hawk on the wing, all them things, and the clean fresh way the land smelled. Hell, I can't explain it. It ain't no damned poet!
I was just ridin' along, gawkin' at things, thinkin' of Miss Pepper, like some love-struck kid, when my eyes caught the reflection of sunlight off metal, off to my right, up in a stand of timber, lodgepole pine it looked to me. I left that saddle just as the rifle boomed. Critter, he squalled and I knew he'd been hit, and brother, that made me madder'un hell. I can't stand to see an animal abused.
Only long stretch I ever done behind bars was the time I come up with this white-trash fellow beatin' his little dog with a club. I took that club away from that man and goddamn near killed him with it.
Spent a month in jail for that, 'cause I didn't have the money to bond out. But not before I took that little dog to a dog doc and had him patched up and the doc to promise me he'd find him a good home.
Just pissed me off.
Man that would abuse an animal, 'specially a pet, his or somebody's else's, ought not to be allowed to live. And a couple of men that done that in front of me didn't. I like animals just a whole hell of a lot more than I do some people.
I hadn't let loose of the reins as I come out of the saddle, and I'd trained Critter to get on his side on command. As I jumped, Critter he come down with me, with me rollin' to avoid gettin' crushed. His eyes was all walled back in his head and I could tell he was just as pissed as me. I could see where the bullet had tore a small chunk of meat out of his right shoulder, but it didn't look to be that bad.
I whispered in Critter's ear and he looked at me like he understood what I was sayin' to him. Hell, I think he did. For an animal that ain't got a brain no bigger than a horse has, they're plenty smart. So Critter, he come up and stood over me, the reins trailin', while I lay on the ground as still as a church-mouse. I wanted that ol' boy up in the timber to think me dead.
Then I got to worryin' that maybe he'd shoot Critter. But no more shots came.
Oh, it was the back-shooter, Haufman. I couldn't prove it, of course, but it was him. And right there and then, I made up my mind that one of us was gonna be planted, or leave the valley . . . if ever agin we come face to face.
I laid real still for several minutes. Then, real faint, I heard the sounds of hooves, leavin' the area. I moved my head just a mite and seen horse and rider toppin' the crest and headin' out.
Mumblin' a few words that I didn't learn in Sunday school, I got to my feet, found my hat, and then led Critter over to a little creek. With my bandana, I bathed the bullet wound and packed it with moss, then covered that and secured it best I could with my bandana and a piece of twine from my saddlebags.
I had some horse liniment with me, most cowboys carry that, for use on themselves as well as the horse, but you just try pourin' some of that into a raw wound, and you'll get your butt kicked clear into the next county—quick.
I ground reined Critter and took me a hike up to that stand of lodgepole pine, right to the spot where I'd seen the sun come off that gun barrel. Took me some scoutin' around, but I found where he'd laid and then I found the brass he'd ejected from his rifle. And it was just as I'd figured.
It was a .44-.40, and the only person I'd seen with one of them was that bastard Haufman. I put the brass in my pocket and walked back to Critter.
I figured I was still some miles from the main house on the Quartermoon, and since I didn't see no hansom cabs around, that didn't leave me many options. So, leadin' Critter, I struck out.
Damn, but I hate to walk!
 
 
My feet was killin' me. Me and Critter had hiked and limped along for several miles before comin' up on a brandin' site. This was a Quartermoon line shack, with a brush corral and a small remuda. The cowboys watched as I walked up, leadin' Critter.
Then they got right upset when I told them what had happened.
“If you want a posse, Sheriff,” one puncher said. “You got one ready-made.”
I shook my head. “No point. He's clear back to town or to home base by now. I'm more worried about my horse.”
These was cowboys, and horse-lovers, and they could understand that. Every cowhand has his favorite horse, and you get attached to them, and them to you. And while any cowboy will cuss his horse from time to time, you just let someone do a hurt to that animal. Brother, you best get ready to swing or grab iron.
One of them hands knew a right smart about horse-doctorin'. He said he'd tend to Critter and bring him in later if I wanted to drop a loop on one in their loose remuda.
Hidin' a smile, I agreed to do just that. They was good boys, and they'd do whatever they could to help me, but I could damn well rope and saddle my own horse. Out here, a man figures if you're big enough to tote iron around, you're big enough to break your own horses, much less saddle one.
I liked the looks of one of the biggest buckskins I'd ever laid eyes on. He looked like he could run all day and still have bottom left in him. But he had him a mean look in his eyes, and he was lookin' straight at me.
“That one,” I said, takin' the rope from my saddle.
“Uh, Sheriff,” a cowboy said. “That's Pronto. We call him Pronto 'cause just as soon as you get in the saddle, you get out of it pronto!, if you know what I mean.”
I knew. I'd figured him for a horse that was gonna let you know who's boss. Well, I was fixin' to show him who was boss.
“I'll ride him.”
The boys, they started wagerin'. Obviously, I had picked me a ring-dang-doo.
I built me a loop and caught Pronto on the first throw. A couple of hands held him while I got my saddle on him . . . after strippin' off all the unnecessary gear. As soon as I settled into the saddle, I knew this horse was gonna be a son of a gun!
I give out with a yell that would have woke the dead, and Pronto, he commenced to jumpin' and buckin'. Ever' time he'd go up and then come down, my teeth would rattle. But I'd been breakin' horses since I was no bigger than a popcorn fart, and he wasn't about to buck me off.
Them Quartermoon boys was hollerin' and yellin' and whoopin', enjoyin' the show. Pronto, he give one more sideways jump and then stopped, swingin' his big head around and glarin' at me, as if wonderin' what in the hell I was doin' still on his back and grinnin' at him.
He give me out one long breath and I could feel him relax under me.
“Whoo, boy!” a Quartermoon rider yelled. “Here she comes, Sheriff.”
And the bettin' got heavier.
Now when a buckin' horse does what Pronto just done, one of two things is about to happen. Either they've give it up and gonna allow you to gentle them, or they're fixin' to carry you where angels wouldn't go.
Pronto looked at me lookin' at him. I patted his neck and grinned at him.
He showed me his teeth and then bucked me off and tried to stomp on me.
Scramblin' out of the way and catchin' him on a buckdown, I grabbed hold of the saddle horn and swung back onto that hurricane deck. Rakin' him with my spurs, he got mad and really cut loose. This was one buckskin that had rode straight up out of hell.
He twisted and turned and went up and come down. It was a damn good thing that I wasn't tryin' to ride him inside some stout-built corral, 'cause sure as shootin', he'd have tried to scrape me off, and I've seen cowboys get busted legs when a horse decided to do that.
There was still fight left in him and he showed me that he wasn't about ready to give up the battle. Pronto, he threw back his head and screamed just like a puma.
It took some time, but I finally beat him. Pronto, he decided to give up the ghost. I was plumb tuckered out when he got it through his head he'd met a rider he couldn't throw off. I didn't want to hurt Pronto's feelin's none, so I didn't tell him that I'd made a lot of money bettin' that buckin' horses couldn't toss me off. I'd tell him about that later, after we got to know each other some better.
I stripped the saddle off him and rubbed him down good with dry grass. He seemed to like that. He only tried to bite me twice and kick me once.
“Your horse is gonna be out of commission for quite a while, Sheriff,” the cowboy lookin' after Critter said. “But that's one hell of a hoss you just rode.” He looked at me friendly-like. “Nobody else has ever rode Pronto.” Then he paid me the best compliment one cowboy could give another. “You're a top hand.”
“Then why do you keep Pronto around?” I knew the answer before I asked.
He grinned. “Pronto goes where he wants to go, and he's sired some fine colts. 'Sides, we like to set strangers on him for some fun.”
I returned his grin, and we become friends.
 
 
Critter didn't even look around when I rode out; he'd spotted him a right pretty little mare and was makin' goo-goo eyes at her, and she was swishin' around him, actin' a fool; females bein' what they are.
Kinda hurt my feelin's. But I guess Critter was payin' me back for spendin' so much time with Pepper and ignorin' him.
I never thought I'd see a horse as good as Critter—and I sure wouldn't want Critter to know—but Pronto was one hell of a horse. Even after all that jumpin', screamin', and buckin' he'd done just a few minutes past, he didn't appear to be none tuckered out at all.
A Quartermoon hand, he seen me ridin' in and hightailed it to the main house, probably to kid Miss Pepper about her beau comin' in and to tell Mister Baker that I was ridin' in on Pronto.
But Rolf Baker, he was pure western man, he knowed something was wrong, bad wrong, just by lookin' at me.
“What happened, Cotton?”
Steppin' out of the saddle, I give the reins to a cowhand. The cowboy didn't look none too thrilled about the prospect of handlin' Pronto.
I looked Pronto square in the eyes. “Now, you let him take the saddle off you and rub you down good. You behave, now, you hear?”
Pronto butted me in the chest with his head and tried to step on my foot. Just his way of sayin' he liked me.
As he was bein' led away, he busted the air with a good one and that sent us all scramblin' for the porch. Pronto, he must have stuck his muzzle into the camp's bean pot.
Sittin' on the porch of the house, a cup of coffee in my hand, I told Rolf all what had gone down, startin' out with the details of my talk with Matt Mills and endin' with my horse bein' shot.
“And your horse?” Rolf asked. He could see that I was OK.
“He'll be all right. But if it's OK with you. I'll borrow Pronto for a time. Me and him get along.”
“Of course. I'll give him to you, have the bill of sale ready whenever you choose to leave. But you are spending the night, aren't you?”
“Oh, please do!” Pepper said, taking my big rough hand in hers. “We really need to talk some, Cotton. About . . . important things.”
I began to feel a little trapped, but hell, it was a trap I'd set for myself.
Her dad give her sort of a queer smile when she said that. Her mother's smile was more open.

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