by Sam Clancy
‘Do it again and I’ll shoot you.’
The roan snorted derisively and walked away a few strides.
‘Damn horse,’ he groaned. ‘Like I don’t hurt enough without you takin’ another chunk out of my hide.’
The early morning sun had poked its orange head above the eastern horizon and Ford opened his eyes to have them assailed by the brightness.
He shut them tight, blinked a little then opened them again. High in the morning sky, an eagle flew lazy circles over what it thought was its next meal.
Ford was able to sit up without too much trouble. His head still hurt but the pain had subsided a fraction. He reached up and touched his blood encrusted scalp tenderly.
‘Damn bushwhacker,’ he cursed. ‘When I catch up to you, you’ll wish you’d never been born.’
Ford dropped his hand to his hip and found the Colt still there. Thank goodness for small mercies. Next, he looked over at the horse. It seemed fine and his saddle and Winchester were still there.
‘Guess that means it wasn’t Indians,’ he said aloud and the roan looked at him. ‘Then again, maybe it would have been better if it were.’
The roan snorted.
Ford’s hat lay beside him and he picked it up and gingerly placed it on his head. He wobbled as he stood up, but soon gained some steadiness.
He looked about a full circle of the landscape but saw nothing that alarmed him.
‘Come here, you,’ he ordered the roan.
The animal looked up and decided on its next move. It walked casually over to Ford and waited for him to mount.
Ford climbed aboard and turned the animal down the valley. He wanted to find a stream to clean himself up in, then he intended to go after the wagon train.
‘I can’t seem to find him anywhere, Mr Hayes,’ the middle-aged man said, perplexed. ‘It’s just like he disappeared.’
‘We’ll move out anyway, Reed,’ Hayes said, a note of authority dissuading the man from further questions. ‘Brady will just have to catch up.’
‘Well, all right. Though travellin’ without a scout out front in Indian country is a little disconcerting.’
‘I’ll send Gibson out,’ Hayes said to allay his fears. ‘He knows the trail.’
‘Where is he? Come to think of it, I ain’t seen him around this mornin’, either.’
‘Don’t you worry none about Gibson. He’s over in our wagon fixin’ somethin’ for me.’
Reed seemed satisfied with that and returned to his own wagon. Hayes went to the back of his and looked casually about to make sure nobody was looking, then drew the flap back marginally.
The compact space was no longer vacant but contained Gibson who held a six-gun to the head of a bound and gagged Brady.
‘Is he givin’ you any trouble?’ Hayes asked.
‘Him? Nope. I think he knows that I’ll put a bullet in his brain if he does.’
Brady looked at Hayes and the wagon master saw only pure hatred. ‘I think our friend here doesn’t like us much, Matt.’
‘He’s goin’ to like us less when we get where we’re goin’,’ he chuckled.
‘I need you out scoutin’,’ Hayes told Gibson. ‘I told Reed that I’d send you out. At least that way it will keep him off our backs.’
‘What about him?’ Gibson said and pointed at Brady with his gun.
Hayes’s eyes closed to slits as he looked menacingly at the governor’s man. ‘If he gives me any trouble, he’s liable to have an accident.’
Gibson holstered his six-gun and climbed down from the back of the wagon.
‘When you get to the pass, wait there for us,’ Hayes ordered.
‘Sure. I’ll be there somewhere.’
Ford scooped sweet, cool water to his mouth from the stream where he knelt. A hundred yards to his left, it fed into a beaver pond made from felled aspen.
He cleaned his scalp wound carefully and washed up quickly, eager to get back on the trail and find the wagon train.
The roan snorted and stomped a hoof which caused Ford to drop his hand to his six-gun. He looked up to see five Nez Perce Indians emerge from a stand of tall firs on the far side of the valley.
Ford stood slowly but kept his eyes on the riders. He flicked the looped thong from the hammer of his Colt with his thumb and watched as the Indians approached.
Once they were close enough for Ford to see their horses clearly, he couldn’t help but admire the magnificent beasts. In his opinion, there was no better sight than a Nez Perce horse.
They stopped line abreast on the opposite bank of the stream. All were armed and looked unhappy at his presence.
The big Indian in the centre spoke first.
‘My name is Chuslum Moxmox,’ he said in surprisingly good English. ‘In your language, I’m known as Yellow Bull.’
‘My name’s Josh Ford,’ Ford informed him.
Yellow Bull nodded. ‘What brings you here, Josh Ford?’
‘You know, we could yell back and forward across this stream until our voices grow sore or you can come over here where it would be easier to answer your questions.’
The Indian thought momentarily then nodded. He conferred briefly with his warriors, not loud enough for Ford to hear, then heeled his mount forward.
The animal splashed across the stream and up onto the bank. From there, Yellow Bull moved closer to Ford but remained on his horse.
He was a big man. Ford guessed that he was in his early thirties and every bit of six foot two. Clad in buckskin pants and a vest which exposed his deep, powerful chest and arms that rippled with muscle. A serious expression looked to be permanent on the chiselled, hawkish face and long, dark hair was held back by a rawhide headband. He was armed with a .56 calibre Spencer carbine.
Yellow Bull set his black eyes on Ford and repeated the question. ‘Why are you here, Josh Ford?’
‘I’m a Deputy United States Marshal,’ Ford started to explain. ‘I have been sent out here to investigate the disappearance of a number of wagon trains. I am . . . was trailing one when I was bushwhacked and left for dead.’
‘Uh huh,’ was all Yellow Bull said.
‘You saw it happen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you come and look at me?’ Ford asked.
‘Thought you dead,’ Yellow Bull told him matter of factly.
‘Why didn’t you steal my horse?’ Ford said. ‘If you thought I was dead then. . . .’
Yellow Bull screwed up his face and grunted. ‘Would you steal him?’
Ford let it go then a thought came to him and he said, ‘You were trailin’ it, too? The wagon train. Why?’
‘We watch many,’ Yellow Bull told him. ‘Some leave our lands, others go into the valley, never return.’
Ford frowned. ‘What valley?’
‘We call it Valley of Thunder. Many times see wagons go in. None come out.’
‘Have you ever been in there?’
The big Indian shook his head. ‘No. Place of bad spirits. Twice, send this many warriors into valley.’
Yellow Bull held up a hand and showed Ford five fingers.
‘Of them, only one return. He die before next moon.’
‘Did he say what he found?’
Yellow Bull shook his head. ‘He dying. Only talk about four legged beast that attack him.’
Ford thought for a moment. He was certain that the wagon train was headed for that valley. But there was still hope with Brady.
He looked at Yellow Bull and said, ‘Is that where the wagon train has gone?’
Yellow Bull shrugged his powerful shoulders. ‘Maybe.’
‘Can you show me where it is?’
Yellow Bull nodded. ‘I show you.’
The big Indian turned his horse and called out to his companions. Their conversation ended and the four warriors swung their mounts away and galloped off.
‘Where are they goin’?’
‘Back to village,’ Yellow Bull said. ‘In valley of White River.’
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Ford guessed that the big Indian’s reference was to the Rapid River. It had been named by trappers because of its many rapids caused by its mainly rocky bottom.
‘I guess we’d best be goin’ then,’ Ford said.
Yellow Bull looked at him, a grim expression on his stony façade. ‘Do not be in hurry, Josh Ford. You too may never return from Valley of Thunder.’
Chapter 7
‘But the trail goes that way,’ Brian Ellis protested at the proposed change of route for the wagon train.
‘He’s right,’ put in Reed, who pointed along the valley. ‘The trail to Parsons is that way.’
‘And I agree with you,’ Hayes said. ‘But Gibson came to me and informed me of a large war party of Nez Perce further on.’
‘No, we should stick to the main trail,’ Ellis said firmly. ‘Goin’ the way you propose could take us a week longer.’
‘And it could also save your life and that of your wife,’ Gibson remarked. ‘Allison, too.’
Ellis’s head snapped around, his eyes ablaze. ‘Don’t you dare speak my daughter’s name. You ain’t fit to.’
Throughout the trip, Gibson had made unwanted advances towards Allison Ellis and her father had had enough. He took a step towards Gibson but halted abruptly when Hayes’s man drew his six-gun and eased back the hammer. His lined face paled then turned as ashen as the hair on his head.
‘Take one more step, Ellis, and I’ll gut shoot you,’ Gibson threatened. There was no anger in the killer’s voice, just a cold, calculated tone of menace.
‘Maybe they’re right,’ Reed said hurriedly, trying to defuse the situation. ‘Maybe it will save us from an Indian attack. It can’t hurt.’
Ellis nodded jerkily. ‘All right, Hayes, we’ll do it your way.’
The wagon boss smiled coolly. ‘Get back to your wagons then. Once we get rollin’, swing ’em right and follow the trail.’
Once they were gone, Hayes turned to Gibson, who still had his Colt drawn. ‘Put it away, Matt.’
‘I’m goin’ to kill that feller.’ Gibson scowled. ‘You mark my words.’
‘If you killed everyone you said you were goin’ to, the boss would have no one left to do what he wants.’
Gibson scowled again. ‘He’s different.’
‘Did you get word we were comin’ in?’ Hayes asked.
Gibson nodded. ‘Yeah. They should be waitin’ on the other side. Once we get through, Mills and the others will close in from behind.’
Hayes looked up into the sky. They had maybe five hours before the sun went down. ‘Let’s get ’em through. You lead out.’
From outside, the pass looked much like an opening in the ridge line filled with trees. Once inside, the walls grew into sheer grey rock faces with deep vertical scars.
The firs stood tall and thick but some had been cleared to allow sufficient space for a narrow wagon to wind its way through.
The combination of high walls and thick trees blocked the wind which created an echo effect for their voices that filtered through the trees in the stillness. It also contributed to a premature dimness which gave the pass a permanent twilight feel.
The wagons lumbered along the trail for a mile before it widened out into a small valley. It resembled a slice of paradise bordered on the left by a steep ridge and on the right, a towering granite cliff.
The valley had large tracts of silver-barked aspen, spruce, and lodgepole pines. A small beaver pond was fed from a large clear water lake which was fed by the snow melt each spring.
Once clear of the trees, the trail veered to the right, towards the granite cliffs. When the last wagon was through, Hayes called a halt to their progress. He climbed down from his wagon and walked a short way back along the line.
‘What’re we stoppin’ for now?’ asked Reed, perplexed.
Hayes nodded towards a large stand of larch. ‘We’re waitin’ for them.’
Ten wraith-like figures on horseback emerged from the trees. All were armed with Winchester rifles.
Hayes turned and looked beyond Reed’s wagon and said, ‘Them, too.’
Reed looked around and saw the same happening on the right side. His heart lurched as fear gripped him. He sat down hard on the wagon seat beside his wife, his face ashen.
‘Who . . . who’re they?’ he asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
‘They’re friends of mine,’ Hayes informed him.
There were muffled cries of alarm from a few of the settlers taken aback at the sudden appearance of the armed men.
Ellis paled, shocked at what was happening. When he regained his composure, he made a determined though unwise decision and fumbled for the rifle at his feet.
The sound of a gunshot echoed through the valley and Ellis stiffened as a bullet singed his cheek.
‘The next one goes between your eyes,’ said Gibson with a cold smile.
The two groups of riders closed in on the line of wagons which created an effective envelope.
‘All right!’ Hayes shouted. ‘Get ’em off the wagons. They all walk from here.’
With loud protests, the wagon train people were forced from their conveyances and set afoot. Hayes went to the back of his wagon and climbed in. He took a knife and cut the bonds that secured Brady and said harshly, ‘Get the hell out there and start walkin’.’
‘Where are we?’ Brady said.
‘Just get out,’ Hayes ordered. ‘You’ll see soon enough.’
Brady alighted from the wagon and was alarmed at the presence of the armed men. He turned full circle, and took in his surrounds, hoping that the landscape would provide some hint as to where they had been taken.
He frowned and repeated, ‘Where the hell are we?’
‘There is way into valley,’ said Yellow Bull, who pointed out the tree-filled pass. ‘Beyond trees, you find what you seek.’
Ford looked down at the churned up earth that signalled the direction change of the wagon train earlier in the day. The sun had gone down and he thought that the onset of darkness would help cover his approach so he decided to wait a little longer before trying to venture in.
‘You wouldn’t care to come with me, would you?’ he asked Yellow Bull.
‘Now you on your own,’ the big Indian told him. ‘Spirits angry enough without me go there.’
Ford nodded. ‘I thought so.’
Yellow Bull’s face took on a stern expression as he said to Ford, ‘Goodbye, Josh Ford. I doubt I see you again.’ With that, he swung his horse about and cantered off. Ford frowned and said aloud to nobody in particular, ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
Ford moved the roan off the trail and into some trees where he made a cold camp while he waited for night to fall. Ten minutes into his wait, he heard a far off rumble, not unlike thunder. Ford frowned. Though deep into the trees, he knew there were no clouds about.
The echo died away but left questions in the deputy marshal’s mind. Whatever he found in the valley, he was certain that it would have nothing to do with spirits.
Brady was shoved unceremoniously into a dim, single room building similar to a small log cabin. He stumbled on the earthen floor but regained his balance and steadied himself.
Three log-width slits high up in the walls provided the only illumination for the space which was very little.
‘Looks like another train has arrived,’ a man’s voice spoke from the gloom.
Brady tensed. ‘Who’s there?’
The figure of a man, clad in what could be classed as rags, moved haltingly into the almost non-existent light. He was unshaven and the growth on his face indicated that he had not done so in a long time. The smell emanating from him told Brady that he probably hadn’t washed in that length of time, too.
‘Who are you?’ Brady asked him.
‘My name is Finn,’ the man answered in a dry voice. ‘Thaddeus Finn.’
‘Is there anyone else here with you?’
The man chuckled, a raspy sort of a sound tha
t turned into a wracking cough. After he’d gathered himself, Finn said, ‘If you mean in here, yes there’s a few others. If you mean out there, then there’s a whole lot more.’
‘What is this place?’ Brady asked, confused.
Finn gave another dry chuckle. ‘Hell, son. You’ve just entered Hell.’
Chapter 8
The moon was fairly high when Ford decided it was time to move. He climbed up on the blue roan and moved out of the trees where he’d made his temporary camp.
The night air was cool but not cold. Up above in the blackened sky, the moon was surrounded by stars. Horse and rider crossed a small meadow lit by the pale silver of the moon above. Ford followed the wagon trail as it entered the trees and disappeared into the stygian darkness, blacker than the night.
‘That’s far enough, stranger,’ the man ordered. ‘Just raise them hands and keep ’em there. Don’t make any sudden moves or I’ll ventilate your hide.’
Ford cursed himself for his lack of caution. When he’d emerged from the pass, the last thing on his mind was a guard of sorts. The darkness had made him careless and complacent and now he was in trouble.
He raised his hands. ‘Just hang on a minute there, mister. I ain’t no trouble. Fact is, I’m lost.’
‘You got that right,’ the man allowed.
‘I been ridin’ around in circles for two days,’ Ford tried to bluff his way out of the situation. ‘You’re the first feller I’ve seen, apart from some Indians, that is.’
‘What Indians?’ the man snapped.
I don’t know,’ Ford lied. ‘I didn’t hang around long enogh to ask ’em. Say, what is this place anyway?’
‘For you, trouble.’
The man fired his rifle three times into the air; orange flame sprouted from the end of the barrel.
‘What was that about?’ Ford asked him.
‘Never you mind. Just climb on down from that nag of yours and take a seat.’
The roan snorted at the derisive reference.
‘But before you do,’ the man continued, ‘get rid of that six-gun you got strapped on.’
