Valley of Bones

by Dusty Richards

  “They are a great hardworking couple.”

  “I hate to ask, but like Jesus, I loved Elizabeth and want to know if the doctor found out what killed her?”

  “The doctor who did an autopsy said cancer had spread through her body. There was nothing that could have been done. And I didn’t even know. No one knew.

  “I made it home in time to talk to her. She told me to go right on living. She gave Lisa a list for me to do if I didn’t get back in time. We didn’t have much time but she squeezed my hand good-bye. I didn’t know then that Miguel had died. Lisa had a rough time losing both.”

  “Hey, Chet, we know you’d have done anything. You should know, Val and I have talked and we feel that you did right. You and Lisa make a good couple. She isn’t like any of the past ones, but she laughs, she’s sincere, and she works hard on things for the ranch.”

  They were at Papago Wells by then. The creosote smell of the desert was strong on the warm night winds. There were people in the bar, horses stood hipshot at the racks. Cole took off to the bar to grab a drink.

  An Indian prostitute came by, pulled on his arm, and then, under in the light from the saloon and stage office, opened the blanket to show her naked body.

  “You want me?”

  “No.”

  Her face darkened in anger. “Why not? You have no woman.”

  He pressed a silver dollar in her hand. “God bless you.”

  She looked at it in her palm in the light. “Plenty good cowboy.”

  Then she closed the blanket tight and walked away her head held high.

  “You’re generous tonight.” Jesus said under his breath.

  “I guess I listened to Fred too long, thought about Josey. How tough life is for these people. They have no family, no bed at night, no meals like we have. And I just felt generous. She may drink the money away or get killed, if that is what is around the corner. It’s a damn tough spot in life to be in.”

  Cole came back from the bar.

  “Was the beer cold?” Jesus asked.

  “No and it wasn’t that good tasting.”

  “Ten cents?”

  “No, twenty-five cents. That is an uptown saloon, in price anyway.”

  “Any pretty women to look at in there?”

  “No. They don’t have pretty women in saloons way the hell out here.”

  They all three laughed as they climbed back on board the stage.

  A great eeha and they went south to the Pichaco Pass, the next stage stop. Chet, by then, realized they’d miss the last stage of the night to Tombstone and would have to catch the morning one.

  In broad daylight, still bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, the three U.S. Marshals shared a stage with a woman in her twenties. She sat beside Chet and reset her skirt ten times before they got out of Tucson. Chet asked if she had relatives in the boomtown.

  “No. I am a widow. My husband died. They told me back in Texas that Tombstone was the wildest town in the West and ladies of the night made hundreds of dollars there.”

  Chet frowned and his face hardened.

  She sat up straighter. “Did I say something to offend you?”

  “They lied to you, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “You ever do that trade before?” Cole asked her.

  “Why no. Am I that ugly? My name is Florence Malloy.”

  “No, you are not ugly, but it takes a tough woman to work in those places.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  Cole shook his head. “You won’t like it. Those men have no respect for women.”

  “Well, I am flat broke and I have no money. I guess I will have to suffer.”

  “No. I own a large ranch north of here at Prescott. I will buy your stage tickets, and my wife will meet you when you get to Prescott. I have a friend who owns a café. She will pay you a living wage with tips and you can live safely and for a long time.”

  “Why would you do that for me?”

  “We have saved lots of ladies this way. You don’t like it, you can go to work in the same town. They have houses there, too.”

  “I bet the ticket will cost you twenty dollars.”

  “Trust us. Take the tickets and go up there. I will wire my wife and tell her to meet you.”

  “Why did the man who bought my tickets back there in Texas tell me it was so good?”

  “Did you pay him for the trip?”

  She bowed her head. “I didn’t have the fare or food money.”

  “So you had to demonstrate to him you could work that way?”

  She hung her head lower.

  Chet raised her chin up so she could look at him. “We are happily married men. Go. Meet my wife and she will steer you right with no services needed.”

  “How will I repay you?”

  “Find a good life.”

  At Tombstone his men took her to breakfast, bought her tickets for Prescott, and gave her money for meals.

  Chet ran off to find Virgil Earp. He was not at the jail nor was there a prisoner in either of the two cells. His heart sunk as he hurried to the Alhambra Saloon. When he shoved in the divided batwing doors he saw Virgil bust a seven ball in the right side pocket.

  “Where did he go?”

  “He left the day before your telegram came,” Virgil said straightening and looking for his next shot. “He may be down on the border at Los Olivios.”

  “Think he’s there?”

  “I think he has a woman there.” Virgil put the eight ball in the side pocket and held out his hand for the money some guy owed him.

  There was no time to get horses from Tubac. He’d have to buy or rent them. The stables were high priced. He asked Virgil.

  “I can get you how many horses and saddles?”

  “Three. Are they good?”

  “Better than the O.K. Corral has and only cost five bucks a day with good saddles.”

  “Fine. When can we get them?”

  “Thirty minutes out front.”

  “What is the deposit?”

  “They will trust you if I say so.” He put the pool cue up on the rack. “Oh, Charlie. Come back.”

  Charlie never stopped or answered him and busted out into the street, nearly knocking down a woman who cussed him out.

  “I hate poor losers. I’ll get those horses ordered.” Virgil went outside and told a barefoot boy he needed three caballos and saddles pronto. The boy tore off.

  Virgil came back in and Chet stuffed a ten-dollar bill in his shirt pocket. “I owe you more, let me know. I have to find my men.”

  “I’m sorry he’d already left,” Virg shouted after him.

  He found Florence Malloy eating breakfast at the counter with Jesus and Cole. The waitress saw him and said, “I have yours ready.”

  “Good.”

  “Well, is he here?”

  Chet shook his head. “Virgil thinks he is at a place on the border called Los Olivios.”

  “You know where that is?” Jesus asked.

  “Yes, I’ve been there.”

  Florence had reached over and opened his coat. “I didn’t know you three were U.S. Marshals.”

  He shook his head at her and pulled his coat closed. “We don’t want the bad guys we are after to know, either.”

  “Well, I feel much better. Safer. I have your wife’s name written down. I get on the stage in an hour, go back to Tucson, then Hayden’s Ferry, and then Prescott, right?”

  “Yes. Lisa will meet you.”

  “I guess you can’t go too wrong being advised by a marshal.”

  “We told you the truth.”

  They took her back to the stage depot, and told her to use the tickets.

  She agreed.

  Chet dropped into the telegraph office. He stood in line waiting. When he finally got to the agent, the man had to go help a key man about something. When he came back, Chet handed the agent the sheet. He read the message aloud. “Is that all. Love You?”

  “Yes.”

  “It will be two dollars and I can
get it out in ten minutes otherwise it will be—”

  “Here’s three. Get it off in five minutes.”

  “I—”

  “That’s fast enough.” He left the office and ran a half block down the boardwalk to find his men who, he hoped, were standing in front of the Alhambra Saloon with the rented horses.

  He hurried the two blocks through the crowded boardwalk and could see Virgil and his two men talking in front of the saloon with some horses hitched at the rack. Good. Things were moving. He crossed the street as Cole was lengthening stirrups on the bulldog horses’ saddles for himself and Chet. Out of breath from the run, Chet thanked him.

  “Hey Virgil, you sure know where to find good horses. These mountain ponies look great.”

  “They damn sure are tough. If you need dependable horses, they will be there no matter how tough it gets.”

  “Thanks,” Chet said as he stepped onto the saddle and waved good-bye.

  They took the road to Bisbee, going southeast through the grassland and hills, then wound up the steep canyon to the pass above the mining town buried deep on the far side of the next canyon. There they ate lunch off a saloon food counter, went back out, climbed onto their tough horses, and rode out into the desert again.

  Late afternoon they reined up at the water trough. The huge towering green olive tree looked like a giant weeping willow hanging over the rusty roofed buildings set around its base in the drab desert of the dusty border country.

  Chet drank the last of the hot water from his canteen. “Hope.”

  “Yeah. I want to soak my head under it,” Cole said.

  They dismounted. Cole got on the pump handle and went to pumping. He laughed as a stream of water finally started. Chet and Jesus congratulated him on getting it running.

  Chet took over pumping. “We need to share this pumping. Those horses are thirsty.”

  “I’d say damn thirsty.”

  “We can get them full.”

  “I’m just glad we don’t have a whole herd to water.”

  “Hello, mis amigos. Wow, you three are handsome hombres,” the woman said, wiggling while walking around them in her low-cut blouse and skirt.

  “Hey, is my old pal Mac Arnold here?” Chet asked, looking around like he expected to see him.

  “No. He left here two days ago.”

  “Where did he go?” he asked, sounding concerned.

  She looked around as if to check to see if they were alone.

  “I think he stays at a ranch in Dixie Canyon in the Muleshoe Mountains.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded.

  “What is that brand?”

  She poised as if in deep thought. “Engels owns it. Nick Engels.”

  He gave her three silver dollars and smiled. “Thank you so much.”

  They mounted up and rode back toward Bisbee.

  “You ever been to Dixie Canyon?” Jesus asked.

  “Hell, no, but if there is such a place in those Muleshoe Mountains we can find it.”

  Cole agreed, smiling ear to ear. At a gallop he reached over and slapped Chet’s arm. “I think, maybe, we have a real winner going, huh?”

  “Damn right. The three of us always had one, and we may be on the best lead yet today.”

  They stopped at a small crossroad store about five miles short of Bisbee, hitched their horses, and Chet explained to the man behind the counter that they were U.S. Marshals and needed his help to find a hideout. “It is in Dixie Canyon over in the Muleshoe’s.”

  “That must be Nick Engels?”

  “I think so. How do you get there?”

  The owner took a piece of butcher paper and the pencil from behind his ear and drew a map of the next road west of there. Made an X at what he said was a wrecked wagon up that road for a marker. “And then you ride straight up the canyon. You can’t miss his place.” Then with his pencil, he used it to punctuate his words. “Let me warn you. There may be some tough guys up there. I mean tough desperate men. Engels has lots of friends like that.”

  “Thanks very much. We won’t tell them who sent us.” He gave him two ten-dollar gold pieces.

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Yes, I do. Have a good day.”

  “You guys do, too. I’ve got a sawed-off shotgun I keep under the counter and those guys up there know it. I won’t miss their business.”

  Chet smiled. “I guess even storekeepers have to defend themselves.”

  “Hey, arrest them all.”

  “We are going in for one, but if they want war, we can hand it out. Thanks.”

  They left the store and rode west onto the wagon tracks going north. The Muleshoe Mountains rose close by and in a half hour they found the wrecked wagon parts and stared at the opening in the mountains called Dixie Canyon.

  There was a wagon track going up beside the dry wash that wound up the canyon. In places a ledge rose fifty feet. Not a well-traveled road. A few miles into the mountains they smelled smoke and that meant people.

  Chet drew his Winchester out of his scabbard and checked the load. Satisfied, he snapped the lever shut.

  “I am not sure what we will find but be prepared.”

  They nodded, looking sharp-eyed at everything around them.

  The road came off a high perch and Chet could see an area that was dammed up to form a water pool. A few bare-breasted, brown-skinned women who’d been on their knees washing clothes stood up to look at them.

  Jesus rode up and told them in Spanish they meant them no harm and asked how far it was to the ranch.

  The lead woman pointed west and the way she pointed told Chet that it was only a short distance away.

  Jesus thanked them and they rode on. The women went back to washing, smiling at them as they went by. Shortly there were corrals and some canvas shades ahead. There was a rock building that looked like a residence. Some hipshot horses stood at the hitch rail.

  How many men were there? He wished he’d asked the storekeeper for an estimate. He spread his men out. Mid-afternoon they might be taking siesta. Then a woman, carrying her skirts, left her cooking and ran for the house, looking back warily at them.

  A man with his suspenders down, in a red underwear top, peered at them from the doorway then came farther out from the house. He was partially bald and showed no sign of defense.

  “Howdy. You lost?”

  “Your name Engels?”

  “That’s me.”

  “We came here for Mac Arnold. He here?”

  “Whatcha need him for?” He hooked his thumbs into his waistband.

  “Murder of a U.S. Marshal.”

  “Mister, are you the law?”

  Chet nodded, keeping a look out for any sign of trouble. “Is he here?”

  “I don’t want no trouble with the law, understand me. None.”

  “Then show my men where he is at.”

  “Okay. He’s sleeping in the house. No trouble?”

  “As long as everyone stays out of this. But one peep and we will settle it quickly.”

  The man motioned for someone to come with him.

  Jesus was off the horse carrying his rifle. Cole took his bridle rein as Jesus followed Engels up the path. The woman who told Engels they were there stood by chewing on her knuckles.

  Chet knew how she felt. He felt that way, too. No one came out and time had stopped.

  Two sleepy-looking guys started to come out of another shade. They were not armed, pulling up their gallouses.

  “Stay right there,” Chet said. “You heard me. Stay there.”

  “What’s going on?”

  A man half-dressed came out ahead of Jesus, who followed with his gun in the man’s back. His hands were cuffed behind him, and he looked rumpled to Chet, as if rousted from bed.

  He booted his horse up to face him. “You Mac Arnold?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Answer me.”

  “Sure, but you ain’t—”

  “Listen to
me, Arnold. You are under arrest for murdering my man Marshal Miguel Costa, and arranging the murder of two of my men. I am going to see you hang by the neck until dead. Engels, find him a horse. He got a saddle?”

  “He’s got both.”

  “Get them out here.”

  Engels shouted, “Get his horse and saddle him now!”

  The two men standing on the side ran off to obey, Chet hoped. Two more men unarmed came out to see what was happening. Chet told them to stay right there. They obeyed him.

  The horse saddling took a little time and the woman brought a shirt and hat for Arnold to wear. Jesus released one handcuff. He put the shirt and hat on and was re-cuffed.

  Cole rode in closer. “What do you think?”

  “No one here wants to die over him.”

  “Suits me. Here they come with the horse.”

  “Load him up,” Chet said. “Thank you, sir. Let’s go, men.”

  They rode out of the place. Chet’s back itched all the way out of the canyon. They finally had their man and in due time he’d be back with Lisa. Once they were out of this place he’d feel better.

  Sleeping in his own bed at home was something to look forward to. He’d wire Lisa from Tombstone.

  Sundown found the four riding up the steep Bisbee Canyon.

  Cole said. “We always made a good team. I’m glad to be back, guys. No matter how tough it gets you can’t beat riding with you two. I’ll be close enough now to help you two once in a while, and that beats running a stage line for sure.”

  “Amen,” Jesus said.

  “Let’s trot these horses. Home’s still a long ways away, and it will damn sure be cooler up there.”

  Chet Byrnes knew one thing. The prisoner on that sorry horse was one less person intent on killing him.

  If he had a better idea who else was set on creating his funeral, he’d felt better. He knew who was wanting it. Finding the persons going to try and do it was another mater. Time would tell.

  Riding over the pass in the sundown, he looked forward to being home.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Dear Fans,

  We sure thank you for your support of the Chet Byrnes novels. Thanks for the notes I get, and for the questions that you send to me about the books. I try to answer the e-mails as fast as I can, but if you don’t hear from me in ten days, it is possible I did not get your note to me.