Blood Valley (8 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Blood Valley
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“It'll be on your tombstone, boy. That is, if you got the greenbacks in your pocket to have one stuck up over you. But chances are, two days after you're planted, won't nobody even 'member who you was. What is your name, anyways?”
“They call me the Cheyenne Kid!”
They? I wondered who “they” was. Probably a name the kid hung on hisself. I never heard of no Cheyenne Kid.
People left and right of both of us had cleared a path, gettin' out of the way.
The kid's face was all sweaty and I knowed he was scared. It was a tolerable pleasant afternoon, with a nice breeze fannin' the valley.
I took another step toward him; the distance was just about right. But I didn't want to kill him, even though I knew in my guts that a killin' was only seconds away. The kid wasn't gonna back down. His kind was all over the west. Punk trouble-hunters, lookin' to make a name for themselves.
Problem was, the kid didn't realize that most of his kind was already rotting in some lonely, windswept, and mostly not-cared-for boot hill.
And there wasn't no marker to tell the world how stupid they'd been.
I could feel the breeze touchin' my face, real gentle-like. Soft cool invisible fingers from off the still-snowcapped mountains that surrounded the huge valley. It just wasn't no good day to die . . . if there ever is a good day to die.
Then the ugly, naked picture of young Marie entered my mind, and it turned me as cold as a cave full of ice. And I knowed I was gonna kill this punk facin' me. That's the way it is with me; it just comes on me sudden-like.
I took another step in the street. “You ride for what brand, boy?”
“The Circle L!”
“You draw fightin' wages, punk?”
“Yeah!”
“Then fight, goddamn you!”
The Cheyenne Kid didn't even clear leather. I put two slugs in his chest, the dust poppin' as the lead hit him. He staggered backwards and sat down on the edge of the boardwalk, his guns slidin' back into leather as numb fingers released the butts.
Then he just sort of sighed and fell over to one side, on his face. His boots—and they was all tore up, the holes in the soles plain to see—kicked a couple of times as death took him wingin' into the dark unknown.
Walkin' across the street, I stood over him, my .44 in my hand, and it was cocked and ready to bark and snarl.
The Cheyenne Kid was dead.
I looked up at a grim-faced knot of Circle L gunhands. “He's your buddy, you take care of him. Get him off the boardwalk.”
I wondered which one of these men had egged the kid on to try me? I knew it had to be one or several of them.
Little Jack Bagwell looked at me. “You some better than I recall, Cotton.”
I lifted my .44, the muzzle pointed at Jack's belly. I could see him suck in his gut at the same time his mouth opened, pullin' in breath. His eyes turned a little scary.
I let the hammer down easy and enjoyed watchin' the look on Little Jack's face as I lowered the .44 and broke it open, punchin' out the empties and reloading. I deliberately let the brass fall onto the Cheyenne Kid's body.
“You ride for the Circle L, Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you personal take care of the Cheyenne Kid's body, Jack. And that ain't no request. You get my drift?”
“Mayhaps I don't wanna do that?” Some of his bluster and bullshit had returned.
I just grinned at him. “You wanna try me, Little Jack? Come on.”
He met me stare for stare.
Everybody heard the hammers bein' eared back on De Graff's Greener. And it wasn't no real pretty sound. He had crossed the street and was standin' to my left, in the center of the boardwalk, that sawed-off pointed at the knot of gunslicks.
At a distance of no more than six or eight feet, that Greener would have killed or maimed half the men crowded on the boardwalk facin' me. Then Johnny Bull put an end to what might have been a field day for Martin Truby's funeral parlor.
“We'll take care of the body, Sheriff,” he said, kind of quiet-like.
“Fine. Now you all just clear the boardwalk.”
Don't get it wrong, these men I was facin' wasn't scared of me nor De Graff. They just knowed a bad situation when they seen one. They'd brace me, sooner or later, probably one on one, for that was their style. All except for the German, Haufman, that back-shootin' bastard. It was just that this wasn't no good time for any more gunplay.
But, as it turned out, none of the gunfighters had to do nothing with the body of the Cheyenne Kid. Doc Harrison came a-pushin' through the crowd to check the body.
He pronounced the Kid dead. Martin Truby was right behind Doc. Truby found ten dollars in the Kid's pockets and said that would bury him, but not nothing fancy. He couldn't buy no mourners for ten dollars; not and plant the Kid in no box. I suggested he take the Kid's guns; they looked to be in pretty good shape. They was Peacemakers, but not the fancy engraved kind. They'd bring about fifteen dollars, new. Truby settled for the guns.
The gathered-around crowd began to break up, the men mostly headed for the saloons to jaw about the killin'.
Truby, he covered up the Kid with a sheet and him and another man, his helper, I reckon, hauled the body up off the boardwalk and toted it to a black wagon, layin' the Kid gentle-like in the back. I kicked some dirt over the bloodstains on the boardwalk and for the first time, began to relax just a bit.
Tell you the truth, I was just a bit concerned about Jack Crow. I was uncommon quick with a short gun, but I wasn't in Jack Crow's class. He was, unquestioned, the best around . . . anywheres. Jack, he had more than forty kills to his credit—if that's what you want to call it—and he never once had let the other guy get lead in him.
Truby, he was talking to me: “. . . what should be put on the marker, Sheriff?”
I was conscious of Pepper's eyes on me, standing about twenty feet away, with her pa.
“That the Cheyenne Kid should have stayed home with his momma, plantin' potatoes.”
I turned and walked away.
Chapter Six
It come as no surprise to anyone when that lard-butted Judge Barbeau cut A.J. and Big Mike loose.
A.J. said he'd tried to tell me that the horse with the chipped shoe had wandered up on Circle L range and some of his punchers had just brung it in.
“How do you explain all them other tracks that led straight from the burned-down house to your house?” I jumped up.
“Order in the court!” Barbeau beat his wooden mallet on the table.
“That don't answer my question!” I fired back.
The judge, he was in the middle of what he called “admon-ishin' ” me, when I just got up and walked out of the makeshift courtroom.
His voice stopped me at the door.
“I can and will hold you in contempt of this court, Sheriff !” he shouted.
I turned and smiled, but it wasn't no pleasant smile. “You don't have to do that, Judge. I got enough con-tempt for this court for the both of us, I reckon.”
Pickle-barrel-butt turned beet-red as the crowd began applaudin' me. I walked out the door.
Ol' hog-butt, he was hollerin' and bangin' his wooden hammer on the table. I just kept on walkin'. I needed me some fresh air. Smelled like cover-up in that courtroom.
Later, I stood on the boardwalk in front of the office and watched as the Circle L and Rockinghorse crews rode out of town, A.J. and Mike up amongst 'em. Neither one of them give me a second look as they rode out.
But Joy and Wanda did.
They was in a buggy, and both of them cussed me as they rode by. I tipped my hat and smiled at them. Then they was gone in a dust cloud, the matched horses high-steppin'. Them horses had more class than the gals.
One of the men who rode in with Judge Barbeau come up to me.
“Don't take this the wrong way, Sheriff, but if I was you, I'd hightail it out of this part of the territory. You've made some bad enemies . . . including the judge, I might add.”
Funny thing for him to say. “I thought, from readin' a few law books, that the judge was supposed to be impartial?”
The man, he just shrugged his shoulders.
“What side are you on?” I asked.
“I ain't on no side. I'm paid to act as bailiff and bodyguard for the judge. But I know a bad situation when I see one.”
“Yeah? I imagine if you've spent much time around that big-butted judge, you've seen more than your share of bad situations.”
He wouldn't reply to that. I stared him down until he cut his eyes away from mine. “You know what I think? I think if things was to get too hairy around here, the U-nited States Marshals just might perk up their ears and take some notice. What do you think about that, Mister Bailiff?”
He smiled. “Probably. But first you'd have to get word to them, wouldn't you? Think about this, Sheriff: there's no telegraph here, two stages a week, one road in, and one road out. I'd give that some thought.”
Then he walked away, leavin' me ponderin' over what he'd said.
Miss Pepper come up to me, steppin' dainty-like down the boardwalk. “I could have told you what was going to happen with A.J. and Mike, Cotton. The judge knows his cake is iced on just one side.”
I looked sharp at her. “He gets money from Lawrence and Mills?”
“So the talk goes.”
“That's agin' the law.”
“But first, Cotton, you have to be able to prove it.”
“Yeah.” I told her what the bailiff/bodyguard had said.
“My father says that wherever Haufman goes, somebody gets killed—shot in the back. But I imagine you know that. And my brother tells me that some gunfighter named Jack Crow is coming in.”
“Yeah, you're right about Haufman. And about Jack Crow, I guess.”
She put a small hand on my arm. “You ride careful, now, Cotton.”
Here come the goo agin. It was a right nice feelin'. I never had no one much give a damn about me. At least, not since I was left alone, years back. I looked deep into her blues, and the feelin' was like I was standin' with my boots filled up with molasses. “Miss Pepper, I been fairly careful about my back trail for a good many years.”
“Be extra careful.”
“You reckon it would be all right with your pa if I was to come callin'?”
She smiled at me. “I would think so. I'd certainly like that.”
“Well . . . if I ever get some time off, I'll surely do that.”
“I'll be looking forward to it.”
“Mayhaps a picnic would be fittin'?”
“Yes. That would be nice. Let me know, and I'll prepare some food.”
I must have looked sorta queer at that remark, for she laughed and said, “Sandwiches, Cotton. Not fried chicken.”
I grinned at her.
She said her farewells and walked off, that part of her sashaying. It was a right interestin' sight, producin' some other feelin's to go with the goo.
I stepped careful-like back into the office.
Rusty, he said, “What you holdin' your hat down there for?”
“Shut up!”
 
 
Seemed like damn near the whole valley turned out for the double funeral. Everybody—except for them partial to the Rockinghorse and the Circle L—had contributed to father and daughter's plantin'. And it was a nice funeral.
Nice, as far as funerals go. Lots of sad singin' and slow walkin'. And some professional mourners come in from the next town, and they added a right nice touch to it all.
They could sure moan.
The Reverend Sam Dolittle got a bit carried away and I could tell he was one of them preachers who was in love with the sound of his own voice. Took him more'un an hour of shoutin' to convince the angels to come down and personal take up Miss Marie and her pa and escort them to the Pearly Gates.
I was damn near ready to do some shoutin' of my own, if they'd just hurry up and git here. No slight agin Miss Marie intended.
Truby, he done it up fancy, rollin' out his two black death-wagons, pulled by matched horses. And then ever'-body walked along behind the hearses, after the services. Them paid mourners, they really got to moanin' and carryin' ryin' on as we walked to the graveyard. They sure earned their money.
Marie's momma, she took it hard, naturally, but she held up tolerable well until the pine boxes was lowered into the ground, then she fainted.
It was just a sad day, and it got to me, and I could tell it got to Rusty and Burtell and De Graff just as hard. Nobody with any sense likes to see no decent person took into the darkness that young, that savage, and for no real reason.
After the graveside services—and Reverend Dolittle preached
another
sermon on the mount—we was walkin' back to the office, Pepper was with her family, when De Graff pretty well summed up the sad day.
“Pisses me off,” he growled. “It just ain't right.”
My smile was very thin-lipped. “Let's go get us a beer,” I suggested.
The boys, they picked up on that real quick-like, addin' some hard smiles of their own.
“Like at the Wolf's Den?” Rusty asked.
“Seems like a nice enough place.” I slipped the hammer thong off both my .44s.
The others done the same.
“I'll open the dance, boys. Then we'll see who wants to pay the fiddler.”
Readin' the brands at the hitchrail, the saloon was filled up with Circle L and Rockinghorse riders, probably some of them punchers, the most of them gunhawks. And I wasn't in no real peachy mood after the services, you can believe that.
One drunk Circle L rider stumbled out of the batwings just as I was steppin' through. He run slap into me and stumbled, fallin' on the boardwalk.
He was young, and drunk, and cocky.
“Get on your horse and get the hell out of town,” I told him. “If I see you agin today, I'll toss you in the pokey.”
He got to his feet. “You and who else?” he snarled at me.
I knocked him plumb off the boardwalk with a short left hook. He landed hard in the dirt, on his butt.
“Put him in jail, De Graff.”
De Graff, he jerked the puncher up and marched him off, bleedin' from his big mouth. We waited on the boardwalk until De Graff got back.
Then we all stepped inside the Wolf's Den. And it wasn't a real friendly bunch that greeted us.
Wasn't on no signal from me, but my crew separated as soon as we was inside and our eyes had adjusted to the dimness. De Graff, he had picked up a Greener at the office, after tossin' the puncher in the pokey. De Graff, he favored them Greeners, and I was right proud that he did. At close range, makes one man the equal of six.
The Wolf's Den, it got real quiet, real quick-like.
I ordered me a beer from a suddenly very nervous barkeep and took me a long pull. Settin' the mug down easy on the bar, I looked around. Miss Mary wasn't in sight, and I think the barkeep would have preferred to be near'bouts anywheres else but where he was.
“Nice service today, barkeep,” I told him, raisin' my voice so all could hear. “I understand why you didn't come, your job and all, but I think it takes a real heathen to sit in a saloon and suck up booze and party rather than pay last respects to a nice kid and her hardworkin' pa who died in a real nasty way.”
“You ain't welcome in here, Cotton!” the voice came from the rear of the saloon, and to my right.
Cuttin' my eyes, I studied the man. I'd seen him around over the years, man who called hisself Jackson Ford. I understand that back in Ohio he'd called hisself Matthew Ramsey, 'fore he killed a woman and had to hightail it out west.
“Yeah? Well, I can understand why you wouldn't want to come to the funeral, Ford. Dead girl and all might bring back some memories you'd rather not recall—right?”
Ramsey/Ford, he glared at me and mouthed a silent ugly word. But he didn't speak it out loud.
Haufman, the back-shooter, was sittin' by hisself, his back to a wall. Haufman was not a real friendly sort, always by hisself. . . either that, or nobody wanted to be seen with the jerk.
“Ve did not know der young lady, Sheriff,” Haufman said, his speech heavily accented. “Zo vhy should ve attend der funeral?”
I turned slowly, my thumb hooked into my gunbelt, my fingers touching the butt of the left-hand .44. “Just common good manners, Haufman. But then, I reckon if you work for skunks, some of the smell is gonna hang on you, right?”
“Schwachsinnig!” he growled at me. Sounded like a mean dog.
I didn't have no idea what he called me, but I figured it wasn't very nice. “If you're gonna call me names, make it in English, blockhead!”
Haufman, he dropped his eyes, refusing to look at me. But his face was flushed. Haufman wasn't no gunhand. He could probably use a short gun, but he favored back-shootin' with a rifle. From deep ambush. The piano player had stopped his playin' when we entered.
I turned to hide a smile, that and to deliberately turn my back to the room full of gunslicks. A plan was takin' shape in my mind. But I also knew the plan could easily backfire on me.
“You know,” I spoke to the room, my back to them. “I just can't help but think about that poor widder woman, with no husband and all them kids to feed. What you all reckon that poor woman is a-gonna do now?”
Nobody said nothing.
“Well . . . I think it would be kinda nice if somebody was to take up a collection to help that lady out.... How do you boys feel about that?” I turned to face the crowded room.
Rusty, he was grinnin' like a kid locked up in a peppermint store.
“I think a singin' would be nice too,” De Graff growled.
“My, my!” I said. “What a grand idea! Yeah, sure. Sort of praisin' the Lord and helpin' them two souls on their way to the Pearly Gates. How does that sound to you boys?”
My eyes touched Johnny Bull. There was a twinkle in them. Oh, he might kill me if he ever got around to bracin' me, but for now, he was findin' the whole thing sort of funny. Johnny and me had never really been enemies. And we'd even rode a few miles together, now and again.
Lookin' around, I could see a few of the real gunhawks thought it funny, too. But most didn't like it worth a damn . . . or me, either. And some, like Haufman, wore looks of pure hate on their faces.
Behind the piano, the man wearin' a derby hat all cocked back on his head was looking a tad green around the mouth. “You!” I called to him. “You know any Christian songs?”

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