Blood Valley Read online

  “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 l
ast 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.”

  “Yeah, that’d be my guess, too. When did all these gunslingers start showin’ up around here?”

  “Well, Rockinghorse and Circle L has always had a few gunhands on the payroll . . . more to protect the kids than anything else. But about a year ago, that’s when Mills and Lawrence really started hirin’ on gunhands.”

  “And that’s when the lawmen started goin’ down, huh? How many . . . four?”

  “Something like that. Four’s right, I think.”

  The second buggy come better into view. An older man and a pretty young woman. “That Wanda Mills and her pa?”

  “Yeah. The second queen of the valley.”

  “Where’s the mother of them gals?”

  “They hardly ever come into town. They don’t associate much with the lower classes. ’Sides, I don’t even know if they’re around here; they might have gone off on some trip. They’re always goin’ here and yonder.”

  “Must be a terrible burden for them ladies to have to bear.”

  He looked at me to see if I was serious, then he grinned. “Yeah, plumb awful load to have to tote around.”

  For some reason, the passin’ parade of highfalutin’ folks had stopped, the fancy surrey with Joy and her pa was right in front of Rusty and me, and ol’ A.J. was givin’ me a good hard once-over.

  I had stepped down to stand by the hitchrail with Rusty.

  “You there!” A.J. hollered, and the tone of his voice made the short hairs on the back of my neck tingle. “Get over here. I wanna talk to you.”

  “Your legs broke?” I called, some louder than was needed, but I wanted ever’body to hear.

  Man, ol’ A.J. puffed up like a spreadin’ adder, his face high-colored like a wild berry.

  There was a hard poundin’ of hooves and a young man on a fine-lookin’ red horse was glarin’ down at me. The family resemblance was strong, so strong that this had to be A.J. Junior. Twenty-one or so years old, and no little feller neither.

  And damned if he wasn’t wearin’ two guns. I never in all my life seen so many men who fancied two short guns.

  I smiled real friendly at the young man. My, but he was all slicked up. Fancy silk shirt and handsome vest. Tailor-made britches and hand-tooled boots. He sure cut a fancy figure.

  And then he had to open his damn mouth. Kinda ruined my image of him.

  But I kept smilin’.

  “When my father orders you to do something,” squirt said to me, “you will, by God, do it!”

  Pushiest bunch of damn folks I ever did see. Sorta put a damper on my right friendly smile.

  “Sonny,” I said, “you best run along now, ’fore I jerk you off that horse and have to teach you some manners . . . like your pa and ma should have done a long time ago.”

  Joy took to fannin’ herself like she was comin’ down with the flashes, or something, and ol’ A.J. blustered.

  “How dare you!” ol’ A.J. squalled.

  Young Junior looked like he was gonna have a heart attack.

  Behind me, a woman said, “Junior sure needs it, Sheriff, and I’d give a double eagle just to see you do it.”

  “And I double her offer,” a young man said.

  I didn’t know who was sayin’ what, ’cause I wasn’t about to take my eyes off Junior.

  “Let’s pass the hat for the Sheriff,” somebody hollered. “Put the money right in here, ladies and gents.”

  “I think I’ll just kill you!” Junior hollered, then grabbed for iron.

  Chapter Three

  I been blessed with good coordination near’bouts all my life. I’m a shade under six feet tall, but I weigh more than most people would guess, and I’m uncommonly strong, with a lot of hardpacked muscle in my arms and shoulders.

  You wrestle beeves all your life and you get that a-way.

  And I’m quick . . . real quick. I wintered with a China-person one time; got to be real good friends with him. He taught me a different way to fight, and taught me concentration.

  He told me what it was he was teachin’ me, but damned if I could ever pronounce it. He used to get so tickled at me tryin’ to talk China-talk he’d just roll over and fall out laughin’.

  So when Junior grabbed for iron, I just reached up and snatched him off that horse and gave him a little midair help towards a water trough. He landed face-first, full length, and sank like a rock.

  Through it all, I heard Rusty ear back the hammer on his .44 and say, “First man to grab iron, I put lead in Mike Romain.”

  “And I’m standin’ behind the deputy!” That same young man’s voice said, the one who doubled the ante of the woman, “Backin’ the law.”

  I didn’t have time to see who else was with me in this squabble. ’Cause ol’ A.J. was hollerin’ and squawkin’ things like, “Intolerable,” and “Out-rageous!” Joy and Wanda was actin’ and soundin’ like a bunch of guinea hens, and Junior was comin’ up outta that hoss trough, mad as a hellfire and brimstone preacher with a sore throat.

  Junior had lost his pearl-handled pistols somewhere between saddle and hoss trough, and his pretty duds was all messed up and smelly. He was cussin’! His momma would have washed his mouth out with soap! Then he took a swing at me.

  I poleaxed him with one big hard fist and he dropped like a ripe tomato off the vine, down, but not out.

  Reachin’ down, I got me a handful of wet silk shirt and hauled him to his feet and give him a little shove toward the jail. I say little shove, he musta tripped or something, ’cause he went down face full in the dirt.

  “You’re under arrest,” I told him. “Threatenin’ the life of a peace officer and disturbin’ the peace.”

  And his pappy started hollerin’ like a hog caught up in barbed wire.

  “I’m going to faint!” Joy squalled.

  “Good!” I yelled. “Maybe that would shut you up!”

  That really got Ol’ A.J. riled up.

  “Watch my back!” I yelled over my shoulder, and never stopped walkin’ and shovin’ Junior, who had him a dirty face and a bad case of bleedin’ and busted mouth.

  “You cain’t do this to me!” Junior hollered, squishin’ along in his water-filled, hand-tooled fancy boots.

  “Looks like he’s doing it, Junior!” that woman who’d mentioned something about a double eagle laughed. I guessed it was her.r />
  I locked up Junior and went back outside. A.J. was out of his buggy—Joy hadn’t fainted as yet—and was standin’ on the boardwalk talkin’ with the gent who’d been earlier pointed out to me as Lawyer Stokes. A.J. was flapping his arms and hollerin’.

  “You there, Sheriff!” Stokes hollered.

  I pushed through the knot of horses. “Get these horses off the street and stabled or reined down! Or I’ll stick the whole bunch of you in jail for blockin’ a public road.”

  Now I didn’t have no idea if that law—or any other law, for that matter—was on the town’s books. But it sounded good, and it got results.

  I met Johnny Bull’s eyes. He nodded at me and said to a rider, “He means it. We could take him, but he’d kill half a dozen of us before we did.” To me, “Some other time, Cotton.”

  “I’ll be around, Johnny.”

  The street cleared, the riders breaking up and moving out.

  “Sheriff!” Lawyer Stokes shouted. “I demand you release young Lawrence and that you do so immediately.”

  “And I demand that you git your face outta mine ’fore I put you in jail for interferin’ with a peace officer.” Good thing I’d read that book on law that time, one writ by some Englishman named Blackstone, I think he was. Cowboys that can read will read anything; bean-can labels, five-year-old newspapers, mail-order catalogs . . . even the Bible when times get desperate.

  I told Rusty, “You get over to the office and find that bond sheet, get the dollar amount for Junior’s charge. Write it up and then daddy can come up with money and get his big-mouthed kid out of the calaboose.” I looked around, “OK, folks, show’s over. See you all tonight at the social.”

  The townspeople, all of them grinnin’, began movin’ out.

  A man held up a heavy-lookin’ hat. “I’ll bring this by your office, Sheriff. And it was worth every penny, believe me.”

  “Will you listen to me, Sheriff?” Lawyer Stokes hollered. I looked at him. He was so mad he was shakin’.

  Then he made the mistake of grabbin’ my arm and jerkin’ me back, spinnin’ me around.

  I poleaxed the lawyer and dropped him to his butt in the horse-droppin’s.