Curse of Skull Canyon

by Peter Brandvold

  Rage and exasperation continued to boil through Lonnie, but he had no energy with which to vent it, even if he was inclined to bring more trouble onto himself. Walleye likely would have drowned him in the stock trough if Halliday hadn’t stepped out of his office.

  “Boy,” Halliday said, raising his voice so Lonnie could hear above his choking, “what brings you to town?”

  CHAPTER 10

  When Lonnie thought he’d finally coughed most of the water out of his lungs, and could draw at least half a lungful of air, he rolled onto his back. The General lowered his head, sniffing him again with concern.

  Lonnie looked up past the horse to where Halliday was standing on the stoop with Chick Bohannon, who just now tossed the shotgun back to Walleye. Walleye caught it one-handed and turned to glower down at Lonnie.

  “I found a man wounded in Skull Canyon.”

  “A wounded man this time,” said Chick Bohannon, mockingly. “No stolen bank loot?”

  “Maybe you wounded him,” grunted Walleye. “Just like you killed Willie Drake. Willie—he was my cousin.” Walleye poked his sausage-sized, grime-encrusted thumb against his lumpy chest. “I take it personal that you shot him!”

  Lonnie said, “Yeah, well, I take it personal that he was shootin’ at me before he got his facts straight.”

  Walleye bunched his lips and lurched toward Lonnie once more.

  “That’s enough, Walleye,” Halliday said. “Pull your horns in.” Halliday produced a long, black cigar from inside his vest, nipped off the end, and stuck the cheroot between his large, pale yellow teeth. “Tell me about this wounded man you found in Skull Canyon.”

  “A little . . . a little older’n me. Name was McLory. Cade McLory.”

  “What do mean ‘was’?”

  “He died last night. I tried doctorin’ him, but he didn’t make it.”

  “You shoot him?” Walleye asked, accusingly. “By mistake— same way you shot my cousin?”

  Bohannon laughed.

  Lonnie sat up and tried to brush water off his cheek. All he did was smear mud on his face. He was sitting in what had now become a bog around the horse trough. “Hell, no!”

  “Don’t bring your foul language to town, boy,” the sheriff ordered. “You leave it back on your ranch. Your mother may let you get by with talkin’ that way, but I won’t. Not in my town.”

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff, but I’m tired of him hound doggin’ me!”

  “I’ll hound dog you, all right!”

  “Stand down, Walleye. Get the hump out of your neck.” To Lonnie, Halliday said, “Where is this dead man you’re talkin’ about? You leave him out there?”

  “He was too heavy. I didn’t think I could get him on my horse. I left him in a cave near the entrance to the canyon. Just inside about a hundred yards, west ridge wall. Behind some boulders.” Lonnie rose, his wet clothes heavy on him, his sodden boots squeaking. “Four men tried to run me down before I found McLory. Rustlers, most like. They must’ve shot McLory and thought I was McLory’s partner.”

  Lonnie didn’t like the way Halliday was staring at him. It was a vaguely suspicious look. Mostly, it was menacing. Why it was so, Lonnie had no idea.

  He picked up his hat, stuffed it on his head, and looked up at Sheriff Halliday, who was a tall man of middle age, with a neatly trimmed, gray-streaked brown goatee to match his thinning hair. He was an elegant man who spent most of his time in the gambling parlors and hurdy-gurdy houses. Dwight Stoveville, Casey’s father, had been the sheriff here until Shannon Dupree had shot him when Stoveville had tried to cut off Dupree’s escape from the bank holdup in Golden last year.

  Halliday, a wealthy dude from Oklahoma who owned a saloon and a freighting business, knew important men in the area. Those men had gotten him an appointment as sheriff. There would be an official election in September though no one was running against him. It was said that no one dared. It was also said that Halliday had gotten rich by sinister means and that he intended to use his position as sheriff to continue cashing in on his sinister ways.

  Suddenly, Lonnie wished he hadn’t involved Halliday and his no-account deputies. He thought he’d been doing the right thing for both himself and Cade McLory, but now he was starting to feel incriminated in McLory’s death, for all three lawmen were regarding him skeptically.

  Halliday took a long drag off his black cheroot, blew the smoke out into the wind, and then, keeping his gray-eyed gaze on Lonnie, said, “Walleye, Bohannon—saddle up and check it out. Bring the body back to town. I want a look at it.”

  Walleye frowned at Halliday. “Skull Canyon’s supposed to be cursed, boss.”

  Bohannon laughed as he dropped lightly down the porch steps, spurs jingling. Halliday looked at Walleye as though he’d just broken wind. Walleye flushed and then, setting his shotgun on his shoulder, followed Bohannon off in the direction of the Federated Livery Stable.

  Halliday returned his hard, gray eyes to Lonnie. He didn’t say anything for a time. It was as though he were probing the boy’s deepest thoughts and motivations with his gaze.

  Then he stuck the cheroot back between his teeth, took another long drag off it, and blew the smoke out as he said, “I know about you, boy. I know about the trouble you and your mother got yourselves into last year. I know all about you and her throwin’ in with Shannon Dupree and those two tough nuts he rode with—Childress and Fuego.”

  “We didn’t throw in with ’em, Sheriff. That’s just a malicious rumor goin’ around. Heck, me an’ Casey Stoveville, the sheriff’s daughter—”

  “I know, I know—I heard that story, too. About how you two took the money to the deputy US marshal over in Camp Collins. But I don’t think that’s the whole story, is it? I think you did that after you killed that deputy and you saw the writing on the wall—that you were going to hang if you didn’t do somethin’ fast with the money. Somehow you got the drop on Dupree, Childress, and Fuego, and shot them all just to keep them quiet about your part in the robbery.”

  Exasperated all over again, Lonnie wagged his head.

  “Just hold your tongue, boy,” Halliday cut him off before he could speak. “I won’t take no sass from a no-account mountain boy. I don’t know what you and your mother got goin’ up there in them mountains, but you best understand I’m gonna keep my eye on both of you. The word goin’ around is that your place is a hideout for cattle rustlers.”

  “What?”

  “I told you to hold your tongue, boy!”

  “But I’m tellin’ you that’s a damn lie, Sheriff!”

  Halliday pulled his cheroot out of his mouth, lurched down the porch steps, and smashed the back of his hand holding the cigar across Lonnie’s right cheek. Cigar ash burned Lonnie’s eye as the blow hurled him back to the muddy ground.

  The General gave a menacing whicker and shook his head, not at all happy with all the abuse being visited upon his rider.

  Halliday poked his cigar threateningly at Lonnie, and gritted his teeth. “I done told you I won’t allow young folks to talk like drunken Irish miners. Not in my town! Now, you get the hell away from me. When I’ve investigated the killin’ out in Skull Canyon, I’ll know where to find you for further questions. If I hear one more word of insolence from you, I’ll take the strap to you and throw you in jail for a night!”

  Halliday wheeled, marched back up onto the porch, and disappeared into his office.

  Lonnie sat up, rubbing his cheek. He glanced around. Several townsfolk—women as well as men—were staring at him. They were regarding him accusingly, muttering among themselves and shaking their heads.

  Lonnie cursed under his breath.

  He spat mud from between his lips, slogged over to the hitch rail, and untied the General’s reins.

  He shouldn’t have come to town.

  He should have kept quiet about Cade McLory. He should have kept quiet about the rustlers who’d tried to kill him. He probably hadn’t helped McLory one bit, and he’d only made more trouble for him
self.

  From now, Lonnie Gentry would make a trip to town once every six weeks for supplies, and that was it. Other than that, he’d stay in the mountains. That was the best place for him.

  He heaved his weary self into his saddle. He rode on down the street, back in the direction from which he’d come. He was intending on riding on out of town. He was too beaten up and humiliated to visit Casey.

  But then, as he passed the mercantile, he saw her standing on the loading dock waving good-bye to the young fancy Dan she’d been talking to before. The fancy Dan turned abruptly away from Casey, lifting his hat to the girl, and nearly ran smack into the General.

  The fancy Dan stopped abruptly, gave Lonnie the hairy eyeball, and said, “For Heaven’s sake, boy—watch where you’re going, will you?”

  Then he waved at Casey once more and strode off down the street.

  Casey looked at Lonnie, her eyes raking his soaked, muddy, and generally bedraggled countenance up and down.

  The pretty, hazel-eyed blonde planted a fist on her hip, and said, “Lonnie Gentry, what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”

  CHAPTER 11

  “The usual,” Lonnie said, feeling too downtrodden to defend himself. “The usual trouble, Casey.”

  He turned the General away from the mercantile and continued down the main street. He no longer cared about seeing Casey. He just wanted to get back up into the mountains and be alone. He was feeling sorry for himself. He wanted to hole up and lick his wounds.

  “Lonnie—hold on!”

  He couldn’t ignore the girl, however. He drew back on the General’s reins and turned to see Casey moving on down the porch steps, holding the hem of her checked gingham housedress above her ankles, her long, wavy, gold-blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders.

  She moved out into the street and stopped near Lonnie’s left stirrup, looking up at him, brows furled with concern. “You look like you were caught in a cyclone. What happened?”

  Lonnie spat more mud from his lips and glanced in the direction in which the fancy Dan had gone. “Who was that?”

  Casey hiked a shoulder, saying, “A friend. You’re soaked. What have you been doing? You’re all mud. And that eye . . . You’re gonna have a nice shiner, there, Lonnie. Did you get into a fight?”

  Lonnie could only give a caustic laugh at the question.

  “Ride on over to my place. I’m gonna clean you up before you catch your death of cold in those wet clothes.”

  “Never mind, Casey.”

  “Lonnie!” She gave him one of those admonishing scowls of hers, both cheeks dimpling, her hazel eyes slitting. He didn’t think she was any more beautiful than when she was scowling at him, though he had to admit her warm smiles could turn his heart to putty.

  “Casey, you’re workin’.”

  “I was about to close up for lunch. Mister Hendrickson is home sick, though I think it’s the bottle flu. I heard he was up all night gambling in the Purple Palace. Lonnie, you ride on over to my house. I’ll meet you there in a minute. Don’t argue with me, Lonnie Gentry!”

  Lonnie had to admit if only to himself that the girl’s obvious concern for him made him feel a little better about his lot in life. He didn’t let on, however. He sighed as though at another bitter defeat and gigged the General on around the corner of the mercantile and down the side street to the south.

  He crossed a tributary of Arapaho Creek, picked up another side street, passed several old cabins—the original cabins of Arapaho Creek, from a time when the town had not been named yet and was only a small, seedy mining camp. The cabins slouched beneath their shake roofs pocked with moss. An ancient, bearded old man in pinstriped overalls sat out front of one, blindly staring toward the far peaks, a shaggy dog asleep in the shade beside him. A stick he’d been whittling lay across his lap.

  Lonnie passed a giant cottonwood rattling its leaves in the warm, dry breeze and rode into the yard of the neat, white clapboard house in which Casey Stoveville now lived alone. There was a small stable and corral behind the house, as well as a buggy shed. Lonnie rode around back and after releasing the General’s belly strap and slipping his bit, Lonnie led him into the corral and closed the gate.

  By the time Lonnie walked back around to the front of the house, Casey was walking into the yard, having followed a shortcut over the creek from the mercantile. She wore a long, faded denim jacket over the dress, and a gray felt Stetson, the chin thong dangling down her chest.

  She stopped in front of Lonnie, and reached up to touch two fingers to the swelling area around his eye. “That hurt?”

  “Startin’ to fuss a little.”

  “Compliments of whom?”

  “Walleye Miller.”

  Casey grimaced as she turned away and started up the steps of the small, white porch fronting the house that was in need of a fresh coat of paint. The mountain winters were hard on clapboard houses. A floorboard was missing from the porch, as well, and there was a small crack in a front windowpane.

  “How on earth did you get mixed up with Walleye Miller?” Casey asked. “You know he’s a tough nut who couldn’t keep a ranch job because of all the fights he got into.”

  “Kind of hard to see the sheriff without seein’ Walleye first,” Lonnie said, following Casey into the house. “You know how all he and Bohannon do is sit out on the sheriff’s front stoop, sharpening matchsticks and drinkin’ coffee spiced with bust-head. It sure is a different office without your pa runnin’ it.”

  Immediately, Lonnie wished he hadn’t mentioned Casey’s father. His murder was still an open wound.

  Lonnie saw Casey’s cheek blanch slightly and her shoulders tighten as she went to the kitchen sink and pumped water into a tin coffee can. She shook her hair out of her eyes, and glanced at Lonnie. “Have a seat, killer. I’ll try to get you cleaned up.”

  Lonnie stood on the rope mat just inside the door. He was trying to pull a boot off.

  “Don’t worry about your boots,” Casey told him, pumping water. “I sort of miss having a man to clean up after around here . . . on occasion.”

  She gave Lonnie a faint, wan smile then turned away, letting her hair drop down to cover her face.

  “Sorry,” Lonnie said. “I shouldn’t have said that . . . about your old man.”

  “My father is dead,” Casey said, setting the filled can on the table and then turning to open a cupboard door. “I miss him, but I’m used to it.”

  She came back over to the table and sat down beside Lonnie, turning her chair to face him. She dipped one of the flannel cloths into the can and wrung it out. “It’s just that . . . times are tough.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Casey reached forward and began lightly wiping mud from around Lonnie’s eye. “I might lose the house.”

  Lonnie grabbed her hand, frowning. “Why?”

  “Taxes. And I’m havin’ trouble keepin’ up with the payments. Pa was a good provider, but he didn’t save much. I was able to get through the first eight months all right, but now I’m starting to backslide. I don’t make enough at the mercantile. That’s not Mister Hendrickson’s fault. He pays me all he can.” Casey shook her head as she dabbed at Lonnie’s lip. “Still, it’s not enough.”

  As she continued cleaning Lonnie’s face, taking special care with the area around his eye and the bullet burn across his cheek, she said, “The house needs a new roof and fresh paint.”

  “I can shingle the roof for you. And I can paint for you, too. For free.”

  Again, Casey gave a halfhearted smile. “Thanks, Lonnie, but you got your hands full out at the Circle G.”

  Lonnie grabbed Casey’s wrist again and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry, Casey—everything will be all right.”

  “Listen to me go on,” Casey said, wringing out the cloth in the can again. “Good Lord—you’re the one all soaked and muddy and beaten up. And you haven’t even told me why you needed to see the sheriff in the first place.”

>   Lonnie looked at her. At first, all he could see was Cade McLory lying dead in the cave, staring blankly at the ceiling. Another chill swept through Lonnie. He swallowed back his emotion, trying to be strong. But he heard a tremor in his voice as he said, “I saw a man die last night.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Casey just stared at him for a long moment.

  “Good Lord, Lonnie. Where? How?”

  “In Skull Canyon.”

  Casey looked surprised now as well as shocked. “What were you doing in Skull Canyon? You know the place is cursed.”

  Lonnie had never known Casey to be the suspicious sort. But, then, he hadn’t known her all that long. Just since last year. She’d always seemed levelheaded, so for her to believe the old legend about the canyon being cursed made Lonnie all the more unnerved about having spent a whole night in the spooky place.

  Half of that night with a dead man . . .

  “I was chased by four men on horseback. They tried to kill me. They popped off enough lead to cast a cannon.”

  “Oh, Lonnie, what in the world have you—?”

  Lonnie squeezed her wrist a little harder, to forestall the question. “I got no idea who they were. Rustlers, most likely. I seen one of ’em up close, and didn’t recognize ’im. I don’t think they’re from around here. They’re probably from Wyoming or New Mexico. I’ve seen every range rider from these parts at least once, and I got a mule’s memory.”

  “What about the dead man?”

  “When I got away from them four shooters, I was workin’ my way back down the mountain to look for the General. I heard a wounded man moanin’ and carryin’ on. He was in the canyon—Skull Canyon. I didn’t see another way, so I went in. He was gut shot. He couldn’t walk very far, so I got him into a cave near the canyon entrance. I built a fire and tended him as best I could.”

  Lonnie swallowed and gave a shudder, remembering last night and wishing some of the vividness had been honed away by time.

  “His name was Cade McLory. A nice fella, seemed like. Only a few years older’n me. He was from Texas.”