Blood Valley (2 page)

Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Blood Valley

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“Now, see here! You et enough las' night for three people.”

But George give him an eyeballin' and he closed his mouth. They probably figured I'd be dead in a month anyways. “Certainly, Sheriff,” the mayor said. “That's fine.”

“And I ain't buyin' my own lead, neither.”

“That's perfectly understandable. Get them at my store.”

Belle batted her eyelashes at me. Plumb sickenin'.

“Where do I bunk?”

George swelled up like a coon in the moonlight. “Right there.” He pointed toward the rear. “Got you two nice rooms back yonder and a two-hole privy out back. It's even got a back-flap for better ventilation.”

Belle giggled. Sounded like a rattlesnake caught in a tin bucket.

“OK,” I said, “You folks got yourself a sheriff.”

They all shook my hand and Belle puckered up. But I shook her hand too. She just grinned big and batted her eyes and then sashayed out to the boardwalk, her bustle a-jumpin' from right to left. You ever followed a cow? You know what I mean. With that rear end of hers, she didn't need no extra girth. Two ax handles wide as it was.

I stuck the badge in my pocket and began unpackin' my kit and war bag. I was gonna have to buy me some new dudsâmine was shabby-lookin'. Diggin' down in my war bag, I fished out my second gun. I seldom wore it, 'cause don't nobody but tin-horms and trouble-hunters and them lookin' for a reputation pack around two short guns. Well . . . maybe another type: lawmen totin' a big badge that makes 'em a handy target.

Walkin' over to Leonard Silverman's Emporium, I got me a better look at the town of Doubtful. It was some bigger than I gleaned at night. Two full blocks of stores on either side. Several saloons, couple of general stores, a hotel, leather shop, smithy, a dress shopâspelt with two P's and two E's; didn't look right to meâand half a dozen older businesses I'd have to look at closer.

Now, I reckon I did look like a saddle bum, but that wasn't no excuse for what happened next. I wasn't dressed up like no dandy. Old wore-out jeans and a shirt with the elbows ragged. My left boot had a piece of rawhide tied around it to keep the sole from flappin'. But I ain't never believed in makin' fun of other folks just 'cause they wasn't dressed to the nines.

I heard the riders, and they was comin' hard, kickin' up dust like a bunch of idiots and shootin' pistols into the air and whoopin' and hollerin'. And me? I was caught right in the middle of that street.

Must have been a dozen hands, and one woman. And that woman was ridin' astride. I've seen plenty of squaws ride that way, but never no white woman. It kinda come as a shock to me.

“Ride him down!” that woman screamed, for no good reason that I could think of. “Nobody stands in our way.”

Now that made me mad.

I never could abide no one that thought he or she was so almighty big they could just run over other people. I have whupped more than two or three in my time.

Them ol' boys come a-foggin' straight at me. I stepped back, judged the speed of that lead hoss, and when he come even with me, I just reached up and snatched that redheaded young rider off the horse and flung him not-too-gently to the dirt.

The brand on the horse's hip that the horse's ass had been ridin' was Circle L.

The wind was knocked out of the cowboy on the ground, but them others had made the turn down at the far end of the street and was lookin' at me. That she-person sittin' astride had hate in her eyes that I could read from this distance.

Me? I just quick-stepped on across that street and was up on the boardwalk 'fore they could do anything more about it.

“Somebody get Rusty!” the woman yelled. “We'll deal with that saddle tramp later.”

So now I was a saddle tramp. Well, hell, I'd been called a lot worse than that.

Leanin' against the support post of the awning over the boardwalk, I watched as the woman said something to a big gent on a midnight-black horse. He rode down my way, wheeled in, and sat starin' at me.

The gent was a big, handsome-lookin' man, and his clothes was expensive-lookin'. I say handsome, but his face was cruel-lookin' .

Real slow and dramatic-like, he dug in a pocket of his leather vest and hauled out a timepiece, smilin' at me as he clicked it open.

“Two hours,” he said, clickin' the watch shut. “That's how long we're gonna be in town. And that's how long you got 'til you get roped and dragged. No saddle bum puts a hand on any Circle L rider.”

“You the one who roped and drug one of the lawmen a time back?”

His eyes narrowed. I reckon he was tryin' to figure out how I came to know that.

“You're a nosy bastard, ain't you, saddle bum?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Let's just say I'm the curious type. And you didn't answer my question, neither.”

“Why should I waste my time talking to a tramp?”

“Hell, you come to me, not the other way around, remember?”

His face flushed up red and his eyes turned real ugly.

“You won't be near about as mouthy when I get through with you, punk!”

I laughed at him.

He wheeled around and left me in a cloud of dust.

He had him a big mouth, but he had the size to back it up, too. Looked to be about six feet, four, two hundred and thirty or forty pounds.

I spat in the street. I just wasn't all that impressed.

Chapter Two

Steppin' out onto the boardwalk, I checked my timepieceâthe sun. In an hour's time, I'd had me a shave and a good hot bath. Had to dump the water three times 'fore I got clean. Before I done all the spit and polishin', I'd bought some new duds at the Emporium. If I was gonna be sheriff, I figured I'd best look the part.

I left my new suit and some shirts and britches at the Chinaman's place, and now I was all decked out in spankin' new duds, bandana tied proper around my neck. Them new boots felt good. 'Course my socks and long johns was new, too.

Socks fit fine, but that new underwear was just a mite itchy.

I went back to the office and hung that second gun on, left side, butt forward. I ain't as fast with it as I was my right-side gun, but I ain't been beat with it, neither.

It was a gambler's gun, meanin' the barrel was some shorter than my right-side .44.

Checkin' myself in the mirrorânoticin' that I hadn't got no prettierâI gave my cowlick a lick and put my hat on. It was old, but I'd had Wong brush it off while I was wallowin' around in the tub out back.

From pure habit, I checked both guns, left the hammer thong off my gambler's gun, pinned on the star, and stepped out onto the boardwalk.

Half a block down, I stepped into George Waller's general store. I have always loved the smell of a general store. The leather, tobacco, spices, and pickle barrel all mingled their smells together. I got me a cracker and a hunk of cheese and a pickle, munching on that while I waited for George to finish with a customer.

“Yes, sir, Sheriff?”

“Circle L man who rides a black horse. He's about as big as the horse. And he's got a big fat mouth.”

“Ah . . . Sheriff . . . that's, ah, Big Mike Romain. He's the foreman at Circle L.”

“Is that supposed to impress me? I can tell you
he
don't.”

“Well, ah, no, Sheriff. Not at all. But Big Mike is a bad man to fool with. You've had trouble with Big Mike?
Already?”

“That wild woman with him ordered her boys to ride me down. Then this Big Mike tells me he's gonna have me roped and drug. And the more I think on it, the madder I'm gettin'!”

“I don't blame you. Now you see what the good citizens of this town have to put up with, Sheriff. And why lawmen ain't lasted too long.”

“You just never had the right lawman. George, you depend on the Circle L for a livin'?”

He picked up on my drift right quick. He smiled and shook his head. “No, Sheriff. This part of the territory is filling up with ranchers and farmers. We hired you to keep the peace. No one is immune from the law. No one!”

Fancy words. But I wondered if, when it got down to the humpin', would George and the others really back me up?

Belle had been listenin' from the open door. “That Mike Romain is nothing more than a brute!” She stamped her foot. Good-sized foot, I noticed. That foot-stompin' knocked a trace chain off a peg.

And I had me a hunch that Belle would like to hang a saddle on that “brute” and try to ride him.

Nodding my head at George and smiling at Belle, I took my leave. As I was walkin' up the boardwalk, I heard Belle say, “Oh, what a handsome man, Mister Waller. I think I'm going to swoon.”

I picked up my pace, not wantin' to be around if she did come down with the vapors. It'd take a mule team and a pulley to get her back on her feet.

Walking to the Wolf's Den Saloon, I pushed open the batwings and stepped inside, pausing for a second to let my eyes adjust to the sudden dimness. I walked to a table and sat down, my back to the wall.

The place had hushed somewhat as I walked, my big spurs jingling. All had taken some notice of the badge on my shirt.

And Big Mike's eyes had narrowed considerable.

“What'll it be, Sheriff?” the barkeep called.

“Beer.”

The beer was cold and good and I knocked back half the mug. Setting the mug down on the table, I said, “'Bout two hours ago, there was this big-mouthed, overbearin', candy-assed son of a bitch who told me he was gonna rope and drag me. Well . . . here I am.”

Man, that place got so quiet you could hear a fly fart!

Folks started movin' chairs back, out of the line of fire. Big Mike had stiffened when I called him that name, as any man with any pride would have done. Now he turned to face me, his face ugly with hate.

“You might not like me, Sheriff,” Mike said. “But my mother was a good woman. I'll not have her name slurred in such a manner.”

I took my time thinkin' about that. “All right. It ain't your momma's fault what you turned out to be.”

That really pissed him off.

“You . . . !” He strangled on his anger.

“But the big-mouthed, overbearin', candy-ass stands,” I said.

He was so mad he was tremblin'.

I looked around for the woman who'd ordered me rode down. She wasn't in the saloon. Might be hopes for her yet . . . but I kinda doubted it, considerin' the company she kept. There was a lady in the saloon, however. But I figured her for the owner, way she was all decked out in satin with her petticoats showin'. She was kinda familiar to me, but I couldn't quite place the face.

“Git him, Rusty!” a cowboy said.

The cowboy I'd jerked out of the saddle and dumped in the street stepped forward. Another one of those two-gun types, hung low and tied down. Matter of fact, I'd noticed that nearly all the Circle L boys was wearin' two guns, and they all had a salty look about them . . . like maybe they was drawin' fightin' wages.

But the cowboy called Rusty had kind of a different look about himâlike maybe he didn't really like what he was doin'. But the pay was good, so he'd try it.

Now he wasn't so sure about it.

I stood up, the thumb of my right hand restin' on my belt buckle, the fingers just inches from the butt of that gambler's gun.

“Let Rusty take the bum, Mike,” a puncher said.

Mike smiled. “I guess you've got first dibs, Rusty. He did dump you in the street.”

But Rusty didn't appear all that eager. Not that he was afraid, for I didn't believe he was. I think he was just a pretty good ol' boy who'd got caught up in a bad deal.

“You realize I can put you in jail for bracin' me, don't you, Rusty?”

Mike sneered at me. “That badge supposed to make you a big man, saddle bum?”

“No. But it does make me the law.”

Everybody in the place, except for the lady and Rusty, thought that was real funny. That woman kept starin' at me, like she was tryin' to figure out where she'd seen me.

“Sheriff,” she said. “Did you ride for the Hilderbrant outfit up in Montana Territory a few years back?”

“Yep,” I did not take my eyes off of the cowboy named Rusty.

“Thought it was you. I seen you brace them three Reno Brothers in that boomtown just south of the Little Belt Mountains.”

“Yeah. Knowed I'd seen you somewheres.”

All them hardcases in the room was listenin' real close.

“I helped take up the collection to bury all three of them boys,” the woman added softly.

Any steam that Rusty might have built up left him a hell of a lot quicker than it come to him. His face suddenly got sweaty and he come up out of that gunfighter's crouch, his mouth hangin' open.

“You better shut that trap, cowboy,” I told him. “Flies is bad for this early in the season.”

His mouth closed with a smack.

“Your name Cotton?” the woman asked.

“Yep.”

All of a sudden there was a lot of ol' boys lookin' in ever' which direction . . . not at me. Like I said, I wasn't unknown when it come to gunslickin'. I just never made no big deal out of it.

“Heard of you,” Big Mike said. “But I think I'm better.”

“One way to find out.”

But Mike was real careful to keep his hands away from his guns.

I killed my first Injun when I was ten years old, a Blackfoot, if I recall right. A whole bunch of 'em was tryin' to bust into our cabin, and the west wall was mine to protect. I killed my first white man when I was about thirteen. He was tryin' to steal our milk cow. Fever got my folks shortly after that. My brothers and sisters was farmed out to neighbors, but I took off, and I been on my own lonesome hustle ever since. I reckon I have picked up the name of gunfighter, but it wasn't nothin' I went lookin' for.

Rusty looked like he was comin' down with something terrible contagious. He backed up, his hands relaxed, palms up.

“Take him, Rusty!” Big Mike shouted. “That's an order.”

“Hell with your orders! You want him so bad, you take him. Come to think of it,” the redhead said, “I ain't never seen none of your graveyards.”

“You insolent yellow pup!” Mike slapped him, the blow knocking the smaller man to the sawdust.

The kid had sand, I'll give him that. He come up off that floor and took a swing at Big Mike. 'Bout like a gnat tryin' to fight a mosquito hawk. Big Mike hit him once, a hard straight right, and Rusty hit the floor and didn't move.

Big Mike dug in his pocket and tossed a handful of silver coins to the floor and on Rusty. “Let's ride!” he barked. Then looked at me. “I'll see you around . . . Sheriff.”

That “Sheriff” bit was greasy. “Yeah, I imagine you will, Romain. 'Cause you gonna screw up, and when you do, I'm gonna put your big ass in jail.”

“You'll play hell ever doing that!” he blustered.

“Then I reckon I'll just have to shoot you, Romain. Why don't we settle it now?”

“Mike!” a woman squalled. I recognized the squall. The same woman who wanted me rode down.

“Saved by a woman. You're a lucky man, Romain.”

That got next to him. I really thought he was gonna jerk iron. But he just turned his big butt to me and walked out, his punchers trailin' along behind him.

Kneeling down by Rusty, I noted that he was gonna have a shiner for a few days.

“I'll get him a beefsteak,” the woman said. “Couple of you boys haul him up and sit him over there.”

The barkeep leaned over and dumped a pitcher of water on the puncher. Sputtering and shaking his head, Rusty sat up, allowing the boys to drag him to a table and sit him down.

I got me another beer and one for Rusty. The womanâshe introduced herself as Maryâbrought a beefsteak out and Rusty held it to the side of his face.

“How old are you, Rusty?” I asked.

“Twenty.” He grinned and I liked him immediately. “And for a minute there, Mister Cotton, I didn't think I was gonna get much older, neither.”

“How'd you get tied up with Circle L?”

“Signed on to shove beeves around. Then the word come down about six months back, that anyone who wanted to ride for the brand had best be ready to fight for it. Some left, I stayed, figuring the f ightin' wages would come in handy.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I was gonna quit come payday anyhow.”

“How good are you with them hoglegs?”

“Better than average, I reckon. But not near'bouts in your class.”

“You ain't worried about what people's gonna say?”

“'Bout me backin' down?”

I nodded.

“Hell, no! I'm alive!”

I returned his grin. “That's your money layin' over yonder on the floor.”

Mary got her swamper to pick up the money. He laid it on the table and Rusty shoved a dollar at the old man.

And I liked that gesture. Even though the old swamper would surely spend it on rotgut.

“What are you gonna to do now, Rusty?”

“I don't know. Drift, I reckon. When Big Mike fires someone, it ain't wise to hang around. Only two I know of that's still around is De Graff and Burtell. They pretty salty ol' boys. Mike's got this hang-up about ropin' and draggin' folks.”

“So I heard. How much was he payin' you at the brand?”

“Fifty and found.”

“I'll give you seventy-five and one meal a day and a place to bunk.”

His eyes widened. “Doin' what?”

“Totin' a deputy's badge.”

His grin was infectious. He stuck out his mitt and I shook the work-hardened hand. “You done hired yourself a deputy, Sheriff.”