Valley of Thunder

by Sam Clancy

  It was from this correspondence he’d gleaned that his father was a United States Marshal. Years of anger and frustration were pent up and he set out to get answers from the man who’d abandoned them long ago.

  Instead of shooting Bass Reeves, Ford had joined the Marshals. At which time, his father became his boss.

  Reeves had been wary of the hot-headed young man at first, but now, ten years on, Josh was a top line deputy who’d brought more killers to heel than anyone cared to count.

  ‘What are you doin’ here, Bass?’ Ford asked his father. ‘You could have sent any number of marshals to help out. Instead, you come to Spencer’s Gulch yourself.’

  Reeves’s face took on a grave expression. ‘The governor wants to see you, boy. There’s been some strange goin’s on in the Bitterroots and he wants the best man we have to go and check it out.’

  ‘What strange goin’s on?’

  Reeves shook his head. ‘I don’t know the whole story. Apparently wagon trains have been disappearin’ and he wants us to check it out. When you leave here, you’re to go to see him. He’ll fill you in.’

  Ford drank what was left of his beer and placed the mug on the table.

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll leave first thing in the mornin’.’

  Reeves’s grave expression never changed.

  ‘You be careful out there, Josh,’ Reeves warned. ‘It would be an inconvenience if you were to go and get yourself killed. If you need help, you know where to find us.’

  Chapter 3

  In 1864, it was a mining camp called Last Chance Gulch. Now Helena was a bustling, sprawling city of 5,000 citizens and growing fast.

  When Ford rode into Helena on a big, mean tempered blue roan, it was late in the afternoon and the sun had started to drop behind the distant mountains.

  He found a livery stable for the horse which cost four bits a day plus feed. Ford warned the hostler to watch himself around the spiteful animal.

  ‘He’ll bite, kick, butt with his head or try to stomp you if you’re not careful,’ Ford had said.

  To which the hostler replied, ‘Then why not shoot him and be done with it?’

  ‘Because he’s the best damned horse I ever had,’ Ford answered and left the man who stood and scratched his head incredulously.

  As he trudged along the dusty main street, he carried his Winchester rifle and saddle-bags. Ford came across a hotel dubbed quite simply the Helena Hotel.

  The marshal stomped up onto the boardwalk, eased past a pair of men who stood talking just outside the doorway, and pushed his way into the hotel lobby.

  From the outside, the hotel appeared to be an upstanding establishment and once inside, he could see that his assumption had been correct.

  The floor of the foyer was covered in brown carpet while the patterned paper on the walls, wall lamps, and polished counter gave it a touch of class. The stairs had hand-tooled balustrades and the top of the landing was wide and gave access to hallways which ran in both directions.

  As Ford walked over to the counter, a well-dressed gentleman in a suit, string tie, polished shoes and smoking a cigar came down the stairs. He looked Ford over with a hint of indignation on his face.

  ‘Howdy,’ Ford greeted him.

  The man ignored him and walked past him as if he weren’t there and kept going.

  ‘Nice to meet you, too,’ Ford called after him. Then added, ‘Stuck up jackass.’

  ‘Ahem?’

  Ford turned to find a middle-aged man, dressed in a suit, standing behind the counter with a stern look on his face.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ Ford asked him.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t speak thus to the clientele.’

  Ford stared at him for a moment then deliberately dumped his saddle-bags onto the counter top, followed by his rifle.

  ‘Well, mister, how about giving me one of your rooms so I can become one of those clientele fellers you’re talkin’ about.’

  Disdain crept into the concierge’s face as he looked the man who stood before him in trail-stained clothes, up and down. ‘I’m sure a man such as yourself will be quite comfortable along the street at the Last Chance saloon. I’m positive it will suit your needs just fine.’

  Ford became irritable and impatient with this officious desk clerk.

  ‘Listen, sport,’ he snapped as he placed his hand on the Winchester, ‘I don’t want to go to the saloon. I want a bed here. And a bath with hot water. So turn around and walk on over to that keyboard on the wall and get me a room key.’

  The man stood there open mouthed. He’d never been spoken to in that manner before. And certainly not by trail trash.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Ford said. He grabbed the desktop ledger and continued. ‘I’m going to sign this here book and if I don’t have a key by the time I’m finished, I’m goin’ to take up my Winchester and shoot you.’

  ‘How dare you threaten me, sir,’ the clerk said indignantly. ‘I shall have to inform the local law about your behaviour.’

  Ford drew back the left side of his jacket so the man could see the marshal’s badge.

  ‘How about you inform me,’ he said. ‘Then I shall inform the governor when I see him tomorrow that you had some troubles.’

  The clerk opened his mouth to speak but snapped it shut like a bear trap. He turned away to fetch a key.

  ‘I thought so,’ Ford mumbled.

  The clerk dropped the key on the counter. ‘Room eight, sir. It will be three dollars a night. In advance.’

  ‘What about the bath?’

  ‘All included, sir.’

  Ford paid the man and lifted his gear from the counter.

  ‘You’ll find your room down the hallway to the right.’

  Ford nodded and climbed the stairs. Right now he wanted a bath, a meal, and a good night’s sleep.

  ‘I said, you owe me a drink, stranger.’ The man’s aggressive stance sounded a warning bell in Ford’s head. Then he dropped his right hand to the polished walnut grip of his Colt. ‘Now how about you buy it for me before I take it out of your hide.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this one time, friend,’ Ford cautioned in a low, menacing voice. ‘If you don’t take your hand away from that six-gun, I’ll kill you where you stand.’

  The crowd of onlookers shuffled back across the sawdust covered floor nervously.

  Ford had come to the Last Chance saloon after his bath for a hot meal and a drink to wash the trail dust from his parched throat.

  The meal consisted of steak, potatoes, and gravy. He followed it up with a dessert of apple pie and dumplings.

  Once finished, Ford decided that he would buy a beer, drink it, then head back to the hotel.

  As he approached the long hardwood counter, a percentage girl with long black hair moved towards him. She wore a red dress that barely contained her ample breasts, and ran a long-fingered hand over his chest and shoulder. She winked at him.

  ‘Care to buy me a drink, handsome?’ she asked in her best seductive voice.

  Ford removed her hand gently and shook his head. ‘You’re wastin’ your time, ma’am.’

  She pouted and walked gracefully off into the crowd.

  It was then that Ford bumped into the man and spilled his beer.

  ‘Let me tell you somethin’, stranger,’ he snarled. ‘Matt Gibson don’t scare too easy.’

  Gibson was in his early thirties and had small beady eyes. His thin wiry frame stretched five ten from the floor and his face was a mix of lines and scars. Truly a man of the frontier, thought Ford. But what kind? Outlaw or . . .

  ‘Well? I’m waiting,’ Gibson sneered.

  ‘Don’t push me, Gibson,’ Ford advised him. ‘I only wanted a drink, not trouble.’

  ‘Well, it’s trouble you got. In spades.’

  ‘Gibson, wait!’ A voice cut through the tension.

  Gibson turned his gaze toward the speaker. ‘What do you want, Graf?’

  ‘You’d best listen to him, Gibson
, and haul back on your reins a might.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t you know who he is?’ Graf asked with a hint of veiled excitement.

  ‘No, damn it,’ Gibson answered impatiently.

  ‘That’s Josh Ford,’ Graf informed him in a hushed tone, as though afraid Ford might overhear him. ‘The US Marshal.’

  Gibson’s hand jumped away from the gun butt of his Colt as if it had turned scalding hot. A hint of uncertainty filtered into his eyes. ‘Is that true?’ Gibson asked.

  Ford nodded. ‘Yeah. Now get out of the saloon before you use up your last chance.’

  Gibson opened his mouth to say something then thought better of it. Instead, he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

  Strangely enough, Ford thought that it would not be his last encounter with Matt Gibson.

  Governor Edmond Reynolds’s thoughts were interrupted by the soft knock on the large mahogany door of his office. It swung open and a middle-aged woman entered.

  ‘What is it, Meredith?’ he asked in a deep voice.

  ‘United States Marshal Josh Ford is here to see you, sir,’ the woman announced.

  Reynolds nodded. ‘Send him in, please. Oh, and find Jeff Brady for me and have him come see me straight away.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Meredith disappeared and moments later, Ford entered the room.

  Reynolds climbed out of his leather, hand-carved chair and eased his large, suit covered frame around his desk.

  He stuck out a meaty hand and said, ‘Marshal Ford, I’m glad you could come so promptly.’

  Ford took the hand in a firm grip and as he shook, he looked into grey eyes and tried to read the man.

  Reynolds had turned sixty the previous month but his eyes still shone brightly with life.

  ‘I wasn’t given much choice, Governor. Marshal Reeves said it was urgent.’

  The man’s face turned grim. ‘Indeed, it is, Marshal. Indeed, it is.’

  ‘Call me Ford, Governor, or Josh. It makes no difference to me.’

  Reynolds smiled. ‘Fine, Ford it is.’ He pointed to a chair. ‘Take a seat. I’m just waiting for another man and we’ll begin.’

  Reynolds sat down again and Ford took the chance to look around the lavish office. It appeared, from the bearskin rug and the moose and deer heads, that the governor was a hunter of sorts.

  However, he also had a decorated Blackfoot peace pipe on his desk. The windows were mullioned and all of the furniture was hand-carved from fine quality timber. What captured his eye the most was the portrait behind him. It depicted a colonel in the uniform of the Union cavalry. That man was Reynolds.

  The governor noticed him looking at it.

  ‘The old days, I’m afraid, Ford,’ he explained. ‘The portrait was done soon after the end of the War. I served with your father in fact.’

  Ford nodded. ‘That would explain why Bass himself rode to see me about the job instead of sending another man.’

  ‘He’s a good man, your father.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to disagree on that one, Governor.’

  Reynolds nodded. Though he said nothing, the look on his face told Ford he knew of the differences between father and son.

  Another knock on the door stopped further discussion on the topic, and when Ford turned, a man had entered the room.

  He was around thirty years old and tall like Ford. His brown hair was combed neatly but his face was tanned. A sure sign that the man spent much of his time outdoors, although the suit he wore wouldn’t be the most appropriate attire in the wilds.

  ‘Come in, Jeff,’ Reynolds invited the man. ‘I want you to meet Josh Ford. He’s the US Marshal I was telling you about.’

  Ford looked at the governor who stared back at him, a hint of a smile on his face.

  So the governor had asked for him personally.

  ‘That’s right, Ford, I asked for you.’ It was as though he’d read Ford’s mind. ‘I’ve heard about your work and when I contacted your father, he told me that he’d send you. Before you say anything, it’s all done now. You’re here and that is the most important part. Now, meet Jeff Brady. He works for me personally and he’ll work with you on this assignment.’

  ‘Now hang on—’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Ford,’ Brady interrupted and stuck out his hand.

  Ford just looked at the proffered hand then turned his attention back to Reynolds.

  ‘If you want my help, Governor, let’s get one thing straight. I work alone.’

  ‘Bass said those same words,’ Reynolds elaborated. ‘But on this job, you will work with Brady.’

  Ford stood up and put his hat on his head. ‘Sorry, Governor, tell Bass to find you another man.’

  ‘That was the other thing Bass said. You are stubborn. He also said that’s what makes you a good deputy marshal because you don’t know when to give up.’

  ‘Bass seems to have flapped his gums a lot about me.’

  ‘At least do me the courtesy of hearing me out,’ Reynolds urged him. ‘And after I’m done, if you still want out, then you can go on your way and I’ll tell Bass to find me someone else.’

  Ford looked at him and fully intended to walk out without a backward glance. Instead, he sat back down.

  ‘Thank you,’ Reynolds said. ‘Now, let’s get started.’

  Chapter 4

  ‘So mostly this briefing, for want of a better word, is for you, Ford,’ Reynolds explained. ‘Brady already knows what I’m about to tell you.’

  Ford said nothing when Reynolds paused.

  ‘Right, I’ll continue. I take it that you’ve heard of the Parson’s strike in the Bitterroots?’

  Ford nodded. ‘I have.’

  ‘Well, over the last eight months, numerous wagon trains have left here bound for that particular strike. However,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘five of those wagon trains have failed to reach their destination.’

  ‘Nez Perce or outlaws?’ asked Ford.

  Reynolds shook his head. ‘We don’t know. They have just vanished. Around 110 men, women and children. There has been no sign of them whatsoever.’

  Ford was surprised by this information. ‘Surely someone must know something.’

  ‘If they do, they aren’t talking,’ Brady said.

  ‘Did you send a man out there to look around?’

  ‘When it was brought to my attention three weeks ago, I sent a man into the Bitterroots to look around,’ Reynolds said.

  ‘He disappeared, too,’ Brady told Ford.

  ‘So what is it you plan to do?’ Ford said.

  ‘The day after tomorrow, another wagon train is due to leave Helena,’ Reynolds said. ‘Jeff is going to scout for it.’

  ‘So where do I come in?’

  ‘I need you to shadow the wagon train and keep an eye on everythin’,’ Brady told him. ‘I need someone I can count on to watch my back. And by all accounts, you’re it.’

  ‘Well, Ford, what’s it going to be?’ It was more a challenge than a question. ‘Are you in or not?’

  Ford already knew what the answer was going to be. ‘All right, Governor, I’m in.’

  Reynolds smiled. ‘Good. I knew I could count on you.’

  ‘Don’t go getting ahead of yourself, Governor,’ Ford cautioned him. ‘Whatever or whoever is out there that can make over a hundred people disappear may be more than any one of us has bargained for.’

  Morgan stumbled, fell, rose back up and kept running. A branch whipped across his face, opened his cheek with a deep cut that caused the blood to run freely.

  He could hear them behind him, the gap closing all the time. His hunters were relentless.

  Once again he fell, his right shoulder smashed into the trunk of an aspen and fingers of pain shot down his arm. He staggered to his feet and leaned against the tree.

  He could hear them crash through the brush behind him and he lunged forward into another stumbling run.

  His lungs burned for air a
nd his leg muscles screamed for him to stop. To do so, though, would condemn him to death. His only chance of survival was to keep going.

  Morgan burst from the large stand of aspen and out into the open. He stopped. He stood at the edge of a large meadow which was barely visible in the early greyness of the pre-dawn.

  He immediately ruled out exposure in the open. Frantically he looked left and right. Right took him towards a wall of granite. A sheer rock face that looked impassable even in this light. His only alternative was left.

  Morgan stayed in the tree-line and started to the left. His run was barely more than a shuffle. He’d run most of the night and it had taken its toll.

  The noises behind him grew louder and Morgan looked back to check the proximity of his pursuers.

  His foot caught on a fallen branch in the grass and he crashed heavily to the ground. His face buried in the wet grass, the smell strong, mixed with the odour of damp earth.

  He lay there a moment and willed himself to use the last of his waning strength to push himself back to his feet.

  Morgan rose to his knees and knew there would be no going on. He looked up at the trees and noticed that their tops were lit up as the sun crested the surrounding mountains. He thought it was a wondrous sight, fitting for it to be his last.

  There came a crash through the brush and without turning to face his attacker, Morgan closed his eyes. Almost immediately, a snarling beast exploded from the trees and launched itself at Morgan.

  The serenity of the forest was shattered and filled with the terrified dying screams of the wagon master and the snarls of his killer.

  The old grey lobo slunk off down the back side of the ridge at the first approach of the rider. The strike of hoof on stone was enough to alert it to the intruder’s presence.

  Ford drew rein on the big blue roan just below the crest of the ridge and dismounted. He tied it to a low branch on a lodgepole pine then did the same to his pack horse on a different tree away from the roan. He edged his way over the top and sat on a flat rock beside a tall spruce.