Copyright © 2012 by the Estate of Wayne D. Overholser
First Skyhorse Publishing edition published 2016 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Brian Peterson
Print ISBN: 978-1-63450-747-9
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-748-6
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
Tomorrow was the day, the day Mark Kelton had dreamed about for weeks. Now he couldn’t sleep. He lay on his back, staring at the dark sky and listening to the Deschutes whisper to him as it ran north to the Columbia: Tomorrow you’ll be in Prineville and you’ll see the ranch your father is going to buy on Ochoco Creek.
At eighteen Mark was part boy, part man—boy enough to live in his dreams, man enough to do a day’s work. It was his dreams that kept him awake. He’d be a cowboy. He’d have his own horse and saddle. He’d wear a gun. There were rattlesnakes in central Oregon. Indians maybe. Even outlaws. These were the things of which dreams were made, and they rolled through his head, each a little more exciting than the one before.
He could hear his father’s snores from the wagon where he slept with Mark’s mother. Beside him was a box with $8,000 in it, the results of the sale of their Willamette Valley farm, enough to buy the ranch on the Ochoco and pay expenses until the ranch gave them a living.
“It ain’t going to be like farming in the Willamette Valley,” Mark’s father had told his wife. “We’ll have to learn ranching just like you learn anything new.”
“I don’t see why you’re bound to go,” she’d said. “We’re getting along all right.”
“Growing webs between our toes,” his father’d snorted. “Rain and mud. I tell you, Martha, I’m getting tired of it. It’s different once you get across the mountains. A mite cold maybe, but ’most every day you see the sun. Makes you feel like tearing the bone out.”
“There’s Indians,” she’d said. “Look at what happened to Custer.”
“Oh, Martha, be sensible. That was a thousand miles from here.” He’d caught her hands and brought her to him, not knowing Mark was watching. “The Willamette Valley’s old country. Settled twenty, thirty years ago. A lot of it’s worn out, but it’s different on the other side of the mountains. If you don’t like the ranch I looked at, we’ll buy another one. Or go up the creek and homestead. It’s a big country. If we go now, we can take our pick of the land.”
“I hate to have Mark …”
“Mark’s the reason we’ve got to go. Here a man’s smothered. Crowded in with farms all around him, but over there we’ll grow with the country.”
She hadn’t argued any more. They had sold the farm and loaded a covered wagon and started out. Up the Santiam. The long climb to the top of Seven Mile Hill. Clear Lake, where they stayed two days and fished, the water so clear that snags of trees hundreds of feet below in the bottom of the lake looked as if their tops were just under the surface.
Every day had been an adventure for Mark. He had never seen timber like this, giant firs crowding the road. Sometimes from a high point he had seen one tree-covered ridge after another, running on and on into infinity until the very beauty of it became monotonous.
He shivered and pulled his blankets up under his chin. It was chilly, even in July. He wished he could go to sleep. They’d be up before dawn, for it was still most of a day’s journey to Prineville. Maybe they wouldn’t see the ranch tomorrow. They might stay in town overnight and rent a buggy and drive up the creek the next morning.
Camping out had pleasured Mark and his father, but not his mother. She was anxious to get settled again, and, if the ranch house was well built, with the windows and doors tight against the weather, Mark knew she wouldn’t object to buying the place. He thought he heard something in the brush downriver and sat up, trembling. He listened, but he heard nothing more. Some animal prowling for food. Maybe a bear. Well, there was nothing to worry about.
An Indian? The thought sent a little prickle down his spine. The Malheur reservation wasn’t far to the east, and Mark had heard about the Snake renegade, Pablito, who had cut a bloody path through this country not long ago. He considered waking his father, but he’d just be laughed at and told to go back to sleep. The fire was only a dull eye in the darkness. He should build it up again, but he didn’t want to leave his warm bed. A moment later he dropped off to sleep.
He didn’t know what woke him. Some sound. He had the feeling he’d heard a scream, but now there was only silence. It must have been a nightmare. Still, he could not rid himself of the terrifying feeling that something was wrong. The fire was completely out. There was a faint glow of star shine on the water, like the thin glint of lamplight caught on the surface of obsidian. Suddenly the night came alive with noise. A groan from inside the wagon. The slithering sound of someone slipping out of the wagon. A man’s heavy voice: “I found it.”
Mark caught the faint blur of movement. He threw off the blankets in a wild sweep and charged at the intruder, wanting to yell a warning to his parents, but his throat was so tight he couldn’t make a sound. He smashed into the man, a fist striking out wildly. It grazed the fellow’s chin, the back of his hand scraping across a tough, wiry beard. He lost his balance and fell forward. The man grunted an oath. Mark felt a sharp corner jab him in the ribs. Stars exploded in front of him as someone smashed him across the head with a gun barrel. Then he fell down in the grass.
* * * * *
When Mark came to, the sun was fully up above the eastern rim. He raised himself by his arms, his head aching with great, pulsating throbs. He dropped back into the grass, sick at the stomach. He called: “Ma!” No answer. He shouted: “Pa!” Still no answer. He gripped the spokes of a front wheel and pulled himself upright, holding to the wheel until the worst of the dizziness passed.
He looked into the wagon. A sound was choked out of him, a strangled, incoherent sound. He shut his eyes tight, thinking he was still having the nightmare he’d thought he was having when he woke during the night. But when he opened his eyes, he saw the same thing.
His parents were dead. Stabbed! Blood was all over the inside of the wagon, on the blankets half covering his father and mother. Their eyes were open; blood had dried and turned brown on their skin. He made himself crawl inside and touch their faces. He recoiled in horror, a clammy feeling knotting his insides and momentarily stopping his breathing.
He clambered out of the wagon and started to run. He fell and for a time lay there, breathing hard, then he got up and ran again. There was no purpose in him, no direction. He just ran. Afterward he could not remember anything about the next hour. He followed the road to where it started to climb to the rim, then he couldn’t run any more. He lay in the dust, sobbing for breath.
He was still there when someone asked: “What’s the ma
tter, son?”
He turned his head. A man on a roan horse, a tall man with a heavy black mustache, the skin of his long face turned leather-brown by wind and sun. He sat his saddle easily in the manner of a man who spends more time on a horse than on the ground.
Mark sat up and tried to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. The man swung out of the saddle and, letting his reins drag, squatted in the dust beside Mark. He said, his voice gentle: “You look like the last day in hell, boy. What happened?”
“Ma. Pa.” Mark wet his cracked lips. “They’ve been murdered.”
“Murdered?” The man grinned. “Somebody gave you the wrong brand of whiskey, son. Nobody gets murdered in this country. Nothing worth murdering for except horses, and a horse thief gets strung up so fast that the bad ones figger it ain’t worth it.”
“They’re dead.” Mark wet his lips again. “Stabbed.”
The man’s grin died. “Horses gone?”
“I didn’t look. There was a box inside the wagon. Had $8,000 in it.”
“Eight thousand dollars.” The man whistled. “There ain’t that much money in central Oregon. Where’d your pa get it?”
“Sold his farm. He was going to buy a ranch near Prineville.”
The man rolled a cigarette, watching Mark closely. “I’ll go take a look,” he said finally. “You stay here. Your pa have a saddle horse?”
Mark nodded. “A sorrel.”
“I’ll saddle him and fetch him back with me. There’s a ranch yonder.” He motioned toward the rim. “I’d best take you there.” He mounted and looked down at Mark. “Get into the shade and stay here. Savvy? This is a big country and damned few people.”
Mark nodded and watched the man turn his horse and ride away. He dragged himself to a pine and sat with his back to the trunk. His head still ached, and he was so tired he wasn’t sure he could ever move again, but he was over the worst of the shock, enough to know this was no nightmare. It had happened. His folks were dead. He had no one to turn to, no place to go.
Chapter Two
Half an hour later the man returned, leading the sorrel. His face was grave. “I thought you had a touch of sun, but it’s just like you said. Mount up, boy. I’ll take you to the Baxes’ place, then I’ll go back and fetch the wagon.”
Mark obeyed mechanically. They started up the narrow road to the rim, Mark riding with his head down, one hand clutching the horn. Presently the man said: “I’m Bronco Curtis. What’s your name, son?”
“Mark Kelton.”
“Where were you from?”
“We had a farm near Albany.”
Curtis glanced at Mark and was silent. They crossed a sage-covered ridge and dropped down into a small valley. Curtis motioned to the buildings ahead of them. “This is the Baxes’ place. They’re good people. They’ll look after you.”
Judged by the buildings, it wasn’t much of a ranch: a log cabin, a shed, and a pole corral. Mark wondered if the place on the Ochoco his father had planned to buy was like this one. There wasn’t even a woodshed. A pile of pine limbs and small stuff, more like brush than anything else, lay back of the cabin, a chopping block and an axe beside it.
A woman was hanging up clothes on a line between two juniper trees. Curtis said—“Good morning, Missus Baxes”—and, stepping down, walked toward her, skirting the white-crusted spot in front of the door where she threw her wash water.
Mrs. Baxes was a big woman, heavy of breast and wide of hips. She wiped her hands on a dirty apron and shook hands with Curtis. “Ain’t seen you for a ’coon’s age, Bronco,” she said. “Where you been?”
“Around,” he said, and lowering his voice went on talking.
Mrs. Baxes listened, shocked by what he told her. Then she said: “Fred’s out in the shed. Tell him about it. Sure, we’ll look out for the boy.”
She walked to Mark and, reaching up, patted him on the arm. “Bronco told me about your folks. I’m sure sorry. Don’t seem like anything that bad could really happen. Now you go unsaddle and put your horse in the corral, then come in and I’ll fix you some breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” Mark said.
“You’d best eat something,” she said. “Go take care of your horse.”
He obeyed, and, when he went into the cabin, Mrs. Baxes was standing at the stove, frying several pieces of fatty salt side. She said: “Sit down, I’m heating up the coffee. It’ll be ready in a minute.”
Mark sat down on a bench at a rough pine table. The cabin had a dirt floor. There were several benches, a bed opposite the stove, a crate that served as a dressing table, and a few shelves beside the stove, which were filled with cans and sacks of food.
An offensive stench permeated the room, a combination of sweat and filth and grease that must have accumulated for years. He knew what his mother would have said if she were here. No use to try cleaning up a place like this. You’ve just got to burn it down.
He wondered if the ranch house on the Ochoco was like this. His mother would have sat down and cried if it had been. She’d fought dirt as long as Mark could remember. Most of the spankings she’d given him had been for forgetting to clean his shoes before he went into the house. He remembered how she’d looked, lying in the wagon, blood all over her and her mouth sagging open and the glassy expression of her eyes. Then he couldn’t stand it any longer, and he put his head down on his arms and began to cry.
Mrs. Baxes brought him a plate with the salt side and three soggy biscuits. She put an arm around him and hugged him. “Now, now, don’t do no good to cry. Nothing will bring ’em back, but maybe we’ll find the varmint that done it.”
He sat up, and wiped a sleeve across his eyes. He hadn’t meant to cry. He stared at his plate while Mrs. Baxes poured a cup of black coffee for him.
“Bronco went after the wagon,” she said. “Fred, that’s my husband, is digging the graves on the ridge yonder. We got a baby buried up there. Only baby we ever had and there won’t be no more.” She put an arm around him again. “You see, you ain’t the only one who’s got trouble.”
“I can’t eat anything,” he said. “I’m sorry I put you to so much bother for nothing.”
“Pshaw, now, it wasn’t no bother,” she said. “You got any other folks? A brother or sister or just anybody?”
“Nobody.”
“You don’t mind burying your folks here, do you, son? It’s too long a trip back to the Willamette Valley, and Prineville wouldn’t be no better than here.”
“No, its all right.” He got up. “I’ll go help dig the graves.”
He found Fred Baxes working inside a small fenced enclosure. Baxes straightened up and wiped his forehead on his sleeve when he saw Mark. He was a scrawny, long-necked man with dribbles of tobacco juice running down both sides of his chin. He held out a hand, and Mark took it.
“I’m Fred Baxes. Bronco, he told me what happened. I’m sure sorry. Hard to believe such a thing could happen right next door, you might say.”
“My name’s Mark Kelton.” He motioned toward the grave Baxes had started. “I’d like to help.”
“There’s another shovel in the shed. Be glad to have your help.”
Mark fetched the shovel from the shed, and, when he returned, he saw the little grave with a board marked:
BABY BAXES
I DAY OLD
No, he wasn’t the only one with trouble, but their trouble didn’t make his any easier.
The soil was sandy and inclined to run back into the graves. There were rocks, too, and some of them so big that it took both Baxes and Mark to lift them to the top. Neither of them talked. Then, after they were done, Baxes said: “I’ll fix up a couple of boards. Maybe someday you’ll come back and put up some stone markers.” Mark nodded, and Baxes asked: “What was your folks’ names?”
“Leonard Kelton.” Mark had to fight back the tears before he could add: “Martha Kelton.”
He followed Baxes to the shed, where the rancher found a board that he sawed in
two. Taking out his pocket knife, he carved a name upon each half. Bronco Curtis came with the wagon, and Mark took care of the horses. Curtis found some canvas in the wagon, and he and Baxes wrapped the bodies in it and carried them to the graves. Mark stayed at the corral. Presently Curtis and Baxes returned.
“Want to look at your folks before the burying?” Curtis asked.
Mark shook his head.
“All right, we’d better get at it.”
“I’ll get Amy,” Baxes said, and went on to the cabin.
Mark walked up the ridge with Curtis. Baxes and his wife came a moment later, Mrs. Baxes carrying a Bible. The men took off their hats, then Mrs. Baxes read the Twenty-Third Psalm and said the Lord’s Prayer.
Mark looked up at the sky. The days were never as clear as this in the Willamette Valley, where there were always clouds, or at least a haze in the air. Here the sky held a strange, depthless blue. Mark wondered if God was up there, and would He let Mark’s parents into heaven without a preacher to pray for them?
He watched while Curtis and Baxes filled the graves. He helped lift the rocks onto the sandy dirt to keep it from blowing, then Baxes slipped the markers into place at the heads of the graves. They walked back down the slope, and, when they reached the cabin, Mark said: “There should have been a preacher.”
“There ain’t none hereabouts,” Mrs. Baxes said. “We didn’t have one when Baby died.”
“It isn’t like it was where you lived,” Curtis said. “Over here folks make out by themselves.”
“I reckon God don’t mind,” Mrs. Baxes said. “He’s with us all the time. I guess we live closer to Him than folks do on the other side of the mountains.” She looked at Mark. “Know what you’re going to do, son?”
“I can’t go back,” Mark said. “Nothing to go back to.” He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t go down. “I’ll saddle up and go to Prineville. Maybe I can find a job.”
“We’d like to have you stay here,” Mrs. Baxes said. “Like I told you, we won’t never have no children. Stay with us and help Fred with the work and … and be our son.”
Ten Mile Valley Page 1
