Blood Valley (3 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Blood Valley
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“Who's this woman that was ridin' with Mike Romain?”
The middle of the afternoon, next day. Rusty had been sworn in by George Waller, and we'd spent some time cleanin' up the office and findin' out where things was. It had been quiet so far. We'd made a visit to all the businesses and introduced ourselves. Now we was relaxin', sittin' on a bench in front of the office, talkin.'
“I thought you knew.”
“No.”
“That's Joy Lawrence, A.J.'s daughter. She and Wanda Mills think they's queens of the valley.”
“Circle L and Rockinghorse that big?” I hadn't had the time to ride out and inspect for myself. Something I needed to do.
“I should say! They're two thirds of the Big Three, as they're called around here. Circle L, Rockinghorse, and the Quartermoon. Matt Mills owns the Rockinghorse, Rolf Baker owns the Quartermoon. One lies at the western edge of the county, one to the north, and the other to the east.”
“And lots of little spreads caught up in the middle, hey?”
“You got it, Sheriff. Between the three of them, they must control close to a million acres. But don't nobody really know for sure. You see, the nesters and small ranchers is stringin' wire. They want to know
exactly
what they own and so forth. Lawrence and Mills don't want that. They want free access to the water like they've always had. But the Quartermoon ain't bad. Baker ain't pushin' for no more land or water; he's got the best water and graze of 'em all. But Rockinghorse and Circle L . . .” He shook his head. “There's gonna be a lot of blood spilt.”
“And just the two of us standin' in the way of it, Rusty.”
“I give that some thought last night, Sheriff. I shore done it.”
“But you still here.”
He grinned. “I like it when things get to jumpin'.”
I laughed at him. It was the same old story, and I'd been caught up in similar situations before. Some people get a lot, and they want more, and they get to feelin' that they're kings. It had been that way up in Montana Territory when I'd been ridin' for Hilderbrandt. Ol' boy name of Williston had him a big spread and got power mad, shovin' and killin'. He just had to have more land. He finally got his wish when he braced that ol' salty dog, Hilderbrandt. Williston got him six feet more land. That was right after I dropped them Reno boys.
“I heard about them Reno Brothers,” Rusty said softly. “I heard they was real fast.”
“They wasn't fast enough. Well, one of 'em was, I reckon. He beat me to the draw but he put his first bullet in the dirt. Rusty, how come the sheriffs don't last long in this county?”
Rusty grunted. “I hope you ain't thinkin' that I had anything to do with any of that mess, Sheriff.”
“I don't. George Waller said you was a good boy that just turned briefly down the wrong road.”
“Good way of puttin' it, I reckon. The lawmen? Well, one of them was ambushed. Another got roped and drug to death. Next one quit. Another got killed. And so on. Why? 'Cause Mills and Lawrence don't believe no law applies to them. Or none of the hands. You see, Sheriff, the range of the Big Three spreads kinda makes a half circle on the top of the county, connectin'. Man, you oughtta see the main ranch houses of Lawrence and Mills—them folks live like kings and queens!”
“So they've been here a long time?”
“Lawrence and Mills and Baker was the first white men in this area. To settle, I mean. I think Preacher might have been the first white man to roam around here.”
“I heard of him.”
“You know Smoke Jensen?”
“Not personal. But I seen him work one time. That's the fastest man with a gun anywhere. Left hand or right hand.”
“So I heard. Anyways, Baker and Mills and Lawrence come in as young men. They all married at about the same time. All their kids is about the same age.”
“This Joy . . . she playin' with a full deck?”
Rusty laughed. “She's just natural mean, Sheriff. Just like her brother, A.J. Junior. They're spoiled and they're cruel. They ain't never wanted for nothin'. And Junior is fast with a gun, remember that. He's good. But he likes to hurt people—'specially women. He's raped more than one.”
“Why hasn't someone hung the bastard?”
“Between the two ranches, Rockinghorse and Circle L, Sheriff, they can mount a hundred and fifty men.”
“Guess that answers my question.”
“Mills and Lawrence had them kids tutored, the teachers brung in from overseas, French and English. Baker's wife was a well-educated lady herself, with money of her own. She taught her own younguns, Pepper and Jeff. They right good kids.”
“Pepper's a girl?”
“And how! Just lookin'at her makes a man wanna go run rabbits and howl at the moon. I know, I done some howlin' myself one night.”
“She must be a sight to behold.”
“Purtiest thing you ever seen in all your life, Sheriff, and Big Mike wants her bad. Goes courtin' her. But she won't have nothin' to do with him.”
She come up a whole lot in my eyes with that statement.
Rusty said, “Now then, right in the middle of that half circle I tole you about is the fly in the soup. Maggie Barnett and Jean Knight. Their husbands was kilt fightin' the Circle L and Rockinghorse—nobody could prove it, but ever'body knew who done it. That happened some years 'fore I come down here. So them gals, they just up and joined spreads and formed the Arrow band. Little spread; 'bout seventy-five thousand acres. And them two gals is tougher than wang leather, let me tell you that right now. And cuss! Lord have mercy!”
“How do they ride?”
Rusty rolled his eyes. “Astride. Plumb indecent. The Arrow hands ain't young, by no means, but they're salty ol' boys. And Miss Maggie and Miss Jean can ride like men, work like men, and shoot just as good as any man.”
I looked up and down the main street. At the far end was a church. At the other end, a schoolhouse. And in the middle, three saloons. The Wolf's Den, the Dirty Dog, and stuck back, almost in an alley, was Juan's Cantina.
“Odd to find a Mex joint this far north.”
“Sheep to the south of us,” Rusty explained. “The sheepmen gather at the cantina. The crews from the Big Three gather at the Wolf's Den. The smaller ranchers and nesters gather at the Dirty Dog. Small ranchers and farmers are bandin' together for protection. First time I ever seen that.”
I thought for a moment. “What is today?”
“Friday, Sheriff. Box social night at the school. Dancin' and all that, too.”
“Like you bid on lady's dinner boxes?”
“Yep.”
“Lots of folks turn out?”
“Near'bouts ever'body in the whole area. Some left at dawn just to get here. I've only been to a couple of them. Punchers is said to be too rowdy for the good folks.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yep.”
We both grinned at that.
“I just might make that social tonight, Rusty.”
“Should be interestin', Sheriff. Big Mike never misses one.”
 
 
The buckboards started rattlin' in about four-thirty that afternoon, a lot of them trailed by heavily armed outriders. I didn't think they was there 'cause of Indian trouble. It'd been four years since the Little Big Horn fight and the following Injun wars. There was still a right smart amount of Injuns around, but this area was so populated, Injuns mostly stayed away. The Crow, Blackfeet, Flatheads, and Cheyenne was north of us, mostly up in Montana Territory.
No, I had me a hunch that all this gun-totin' didn't have nothin' to do with Injuns.
I said as much to George Waller. Rusty had wandered off somewhere.
“Yes, it's coming, Sheriff,” he admitted. “The lid could fly off the pot anytime.”
I shoved my hat back and stared at him. Must have made him uncomfortable. He fidgeted some and said, “The cattlemen want the sheep out. Sheepmen say they're staying. Two of the Big Three want the nesters out. Nesters say they're here to stay.”
“And the Arrow spread?”
“Right in the middle with prime land. Good graze and good water. Circle L and Rockinghorse want that land bad.”
Was that it? Was that all this was about? For sure, men have died for less. The lust for power does strange things to people sometimes.
I nodded at George and walked out to the boardwalk.
Strangest damn town I'd ever been in.
Takin' my time, I walked the boardwalk toward the schoolhouse, tippin' my hat and smilin' at the ladies, noddin' to the menfolk.
“Coming to the social tonight, Sheriff?” a man inquired, friendly-like.
“I'll be there.”
Walkin' on up to the school, I seen a gaggle of womenfolks spreadin' tablecloths out on long made-up tables. They was a-gigglin' and a-carryin'-on like they do. They give me the once-over and some of 'em started whisperin' amongst themselves and sneakin' looks at me.
I done a quick about-face and got the hell gone from there.
Tell you the truth, womenfolk make me nervous. A sashayin' and a-twitchin' around. And you don't never know what they're thinkin', neither. Give me a good horse and a good gun anytime. A dog is right nice to have around, too. A man can depend on them. And a good watch. I wanted me a good watch—one of them gold railroad watches, with a nice fob.
Matter of fact, I seen some watches down at Waller's Store. Come payday, by God, I'll just get me one.
Walkin' back, I stopped midtown and stared at the comin'-up parade. There they was, comin' in east by north, so it had to be the Circle L and Rockinghorse bunch. My, but they was makin' a grand entrance. Like some of them. East Injun Pootentoots I'd read about. I wasn't real sure what a Pooten-toot was, but I figured it was somebody who thought more of hisself than other folks did.
I had to take me a second look to see for sure if that was the same woman that'd hollered like a whoor to have me run down day before. It was. But this time she was sittin' in a surrey, and she was all gussied up in a fancy gown and was a-twirlin' a little pink parasol.
I leaned agin' a post and watched the parade. Best shot I'd seen since I was a kid up on the Yellowstone and old lady McKinny got her dresstail caught in the door one windy day. Took it plumb off. She wasn't wearin' nothin' under the gingham neither. I never saw such a sight in all my nine years of livin'. I run home and told my pa and he like to fell down he was laughin' so hard. I told Momma and she whupped me.
Took me years to figure that out.
That older man sittin' beside Joy—he wasn't that old, maybe forty-five—that had to be her pa, ol' A.J. hisself. I wondered it the J. stood for Joy. If so, his middle name was as strange as my last name.
And there was Big Mike, sittin' up on that big black of his, lookin' like hell warmed over.
And then I seen the outriders, and knew right off that the hundred and twenty-five I was gettin' was some short.
Gave me sort of a funny feelin' in the gut.
Rusty joined me by the hitchrail. “You know any of 'em, Sheriff?”
“Most of 'em. And there ain't a one there that's worth a damn for nothin' except gunslingin'.”
And I was speakin' the truth. There was Lydell Townsend, Tanner Smith, Dick Avedon. There was the Mex gunfighter, Sanchez, riding a horse with a Rockinghorse brand. Jim Reynolds, Hank Hawthorne, Joe Coyle, Little Jack Bagwell, Johnny Bull, and Tom Marks. There was some others that I couldn't right off hang a name on . . . except Trouble-Hunter.
I named off all that I personal knew.
Rusty, he said, “That one on the bay, that's Waldo Stamps, the Texas gunhawk. Clay Dundee on the paint. Behind him is Fox Breckenridge, Ford Childress, the Arizona gunhand. And that's the German, Haufman.”
“The fat one; the back-shooter?”
“That's him. See that close rifle boot? That's a .44–.40, and he's dead right with it.”
“So I hear.”
“Them other ol' boys is just as good as any of 'em, but they just ain't got no public name, as yet.”
“Rusty . . . what in the hell is goin' on around here? Do you know?”
The passin' parade had slowed down some, waitin' on the second buggy to catch up, I reckon.
“All sorts of rumors, Sheriff, from gold to oil. But I think all that is just talk to cover up a range war.”

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