Ten Mile Valley

by Wayne D. Overholser

  Chapter Six

  As long as Mark lived, he would never forget his first sight of Ten Mile Valley. He and Bronco reached the summit of the Paradise Hills an hour after they left the Circle J. The sun, barely above the rim to the east, had turned the sky gold and scarlet. A breeze touched the sage below them so the valley looked like a great silver sea threaded by the green of the willows that grew along the creek.

  Two forks of the stream came together directly below the ridge where Mark and Bronco sat their saddles. From what Herb Jackson had told them, the creek would be Ten Mile, not a large stream so late in the summer, but at this altitude there would likely be a heavy snowfall, and, when it went off in late spring or early summer, the creek would carry ample water for irrigation.

  Mark guessed the valley was four or five miles wide, the hills to the north covered by pines, the rim on the south a sheer, raked wall with only a few breaks. The ridges to the east were much like the Paradise Hills, where Mark was now, except that the creek had cut an opening through them, which looked like a narrow crack at this distance.

  Bronco had called Sherman Valley a cow heaven. This was exactly the same in miniature, with the exception of a few patches of greasewood and what seemed to be a considerable patch of swamp in the low end of the valley. Then Mark remembered that even the tulles had their use.

  Mark glanced at Bronco’s face. The man sat his saddle as if he were frozen, one hand folded over the horn. The predatory expression that often marked his face was completely gone. In its place was one of beatific peace, as if he had told God what he wanted and God had created it for him. But the thought remained unvoiced in Mark’s mind. Bronco would have laughed if Mark had expressed it, for Bronco Curtis was not one to give God credit.

  Bronco nodded at Mark, smiling. “We ain’t looking any more. We’re gonna own this valley.”

  Bronco touched up his horse and rode down the rocky slope through the scattered junipers. Mark followed, saying nothing, not wanting to break the spell that had been cast upon Bronco. He was remembering how Bronco had said: “We’re gonna own this valley.”

  So he was included in whatever plans Bronco had. It troubled him just as he had been troubled when they’d first seen Jackson’s Circle J the day before. There was a quality about Bronco that frightened Mark, a sort of leashed strength that, once turned loose, would crush anything or anybody who stood in his way, a driving will that would not be hampered by moral scruples. Mark didn’t know what Bronco planned to do, but whatever it was, Mark would be a part of it. The trouble was he had no choice. Bronco simply wouldn’t give him a choice.

  They crossed a dry bench, scaring up a couple of sage hens as they rode. A little later an antelope bounded off to the south. Bronco turned to Mark, grinning. “Jackson was right. A man could take a big chunk of his living right out of the country.”

  Later they swung down to the creek, the sun cutting away the night chill. A number of Cross Seven cows and calves were in the willows beside the stream. Noticing them, Mark asked: “How big a herd does Andrews own?”

  “Jackson didn’t say,” Bronco answered, “but it ain’t big enough, not near big enough for us.”

  In midmorning they crossed a hay meadow and came to the Cross Seven buildings. They were poor and run-down compared to Jackson’s Circle J: a slab shed for a barn, a couple of pole corrals with three horses in the one next to the barn, an outhouse, and a log cabin with a dirt roof.

  There were a number of haystacks in the meadow, several of them looking as if they had been carried over for a couple of seasons. Even so, there wasn’t enough hay to take any sizeable herd through a rough winter.

  A man who had been mending a bridle in front of the shed came toward them. Bronco stepped down without an invitation, motioning for Mark to do the same. When the man reached them, Bronco held out his hand. “I’m Bronco Curtis.” He nodded at Mark. “My partner, Mark Kelton.”

  “I’m Orry Andrews,” the man said as he shook hands. “Glad to see you. Gets a mite lonesome here. Not many strangers ride through this country.”

  Andrews was a small man with pale eyes and a ragged beard on his chin, the rest of his face smooth-shaven. He was about sixty, Mark guessed, although he looked older. Again Mark had a vague feeling of disappointment just as he had when he’d seen Fred Baxes and Bud Ackerman.

  Mark’s notion that it took a tough breed of men to survive in eastern Oregon had been jolted a good many times during the summer. There was nothing tough in Orry Andrews’s appearance, and he wasn’t likely to survive, either. Bronco’s eyes were giving him a rough going-over, and he seemed to shrink in size before Bronco’s gaze.

  “Come on in,” Andrews said. “I got up late this morning. I reckon the coffee’s still warm.”

  “No.” Bronco shoved his big hands under his belt and, rocking back on his heels, looked as formidable as Mark had ever seen him. “Herb Jackson said your outfit was for sale. We’ll buy you out.”

  Just like that. “We’ll buy you out.” No preliminaries, no negotiating, no haggling. Andrews scratched a cheek, his hands heavy-jointed. Mark felt sympathy for him. He had seen men like him in the Willamette Valley who had worked hard all their lives but still never got ahead.

  Now he saw hope brighten the man’s face, but there was suspicion there, too, as if he feared this was too good to be true. Or perhaps he was afraid of Bronco. He had cause to be, Mark thought as he glanced at Bronco’s dark face, and suddenly he realized a great weight was pressing against his chest and he was having trouble breathing.

  “Yeah, the place is for sale,” Andrews said. “I’ve got title to a section of swamp land. I own three horses you see in the corral and more’n two hundred head of cattle, most of ’em cows that’ll calve next spring. I ain’t sure, but I guess I’ve got about thirty steers ready to market.”

  He nodded toward the mountains. “They’re back in the timber with most of my stock. You just seen a few cows and calves on the creek as you rode in. I was fixing to start gathering tomorrow. I drive my steers to the railroad with the Triangle R herd.”

  Andrews motioned south. “It’s a big outfit about thirty miles from here. They always let me go along. You know, swapping my help on the drive for the privilege of throwing my little jag of steers in with their herd.”

  Bronco listened impatiently. Now he asked brusquely: “What’s your price?”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  Bronco laughed at him. “You’re high, Andrews. Sitting out here by yourself, you’re a sitting duck for some bunch of Paiutes that take a notion to have a little fun. You’ll lose your hair one of these mornings.”

  Andrews shrugged. “I ain’t worried about that, Mister Curtis. The Paiutes ain’t ornery. Old Winnemucca is a friendly booger, and he’s their chief.”

  “No old chief is going to keep the young bucks in line,” Bronco said. “Not if they get to feeling foxy. I’ll give you $1,000.” He motioned to the corral. “And you can take your pick of the horses and anything you need out of the house.”

  “Oh, I’d just take a few clothes and enough grub to last me till I get to Camp Sherman. And my Henry rifle.” He shook his head. “But I couldn’t take a thousand. I don’t have to sell, you know. The only reason I figgered to was because the winters are getting a mite hard on my joints. I aim to live on the Rogue. Winters are purty mild there, I heard.”

  Bronco put a hand on the butt of his gun. He said: “Friend, I’m going to have your spread. I’ll split the difference with you. If you’re smart, you’ll take it.”

  Andrews dragged a scuffed boot toe through the dust. He said: “I just brought in a wagon load of supplies. There’s a store close to Camp Sherman, and I fetched in enough to last me all winter. I figgered that if I sold, I’d throw in …”

  “Three thousand dollars,” Bronco said, “and you’ll throw the supplies in.”

  Andrews sighed. “All right, it’s a deal. I guess you’ll want some papers made out.” He stopped. “Got the
money on you?”

  “Sure it’s on me.” Bronco nodded at Mark. “Stay here.”

  He strode toward the cabin, Mark’s gaze following him. He wondered why Bronco had told him to stay here. Maybe he intended to browbeat Andrews down to his original offer of $1,000. At a time like this there was no yielding in Bronco Curtis. If there was any giving to be done, it would come from Orry Andrews.

  Leaving his sorrel ground-hitched, Mark walked to the corral. A buckskin gelding looked like a fair saddle horse. The two bay mares were skinny, but maybe they’d do hitched to a mowing machine or a wagon.

  He glanced into the shed. The stable side needed cleaning out. The other side was a mess, harness and a couple of saddles and odds and ends that Andrews had gathered since the day he’d put up the building.

  Mark hunkered in the shade of the shed, wondering how much money Bronco had. He’d never said, but Mark judged it wasn’t much over the $3,000 he’d offered Andrews. He asked himself how Bronco aimed to get ahead. Right now the Cross Seven was a long way from being the dream ranch Bronco wanted. A beginning, but a pretty sorry one.

  They came out of the cabin, a partly filled sack under Andrews’s right arm, a Henry rifle in his left hand. He didn’t look particularly unhappy, so he’d probably got his $3,000. He saddled the buckskin, Bronco stopping beside Mark long enough to say: “I’m going with him so he can tell me something about the range. Clean the cabin up. It’s a mess.”

  Mark waited until they rode off, going upstream, then he put his sorrel into the corral with the mares and went into the cabin. It had a rough board floor, but, aside from that, it was as dirty and smelled as bad as the Baxes’ cabin. He built up the fire, brought water from the creek, heated it, and started to clean up.

  By evening the cabin smelled and looked better. It seemed bigger, as if Mark had added a few feet on all sides. Mark had carried out armload after armload of junk. Now there was a pile of litter in front that would have to be hauled off in the wagon. Apparently Orry Andrews was a man who couldn’t throw a tin can away.

  Bronco did not return until dusk. Mark had supper ready and had taken the bedding outside to air. “You’ve been working, looks like,” Bronco said approvingly, then he gave Mark a resounding slap on the back. “Partner, we’ve got ourselves a spread. With the summer range in the mountains and the hay a man can raise along the creek, we’ll have a layout that’ll match the Triangle R or any of the rest of ’em.”

  Mark had never seen Bronco as exuberant as he was after supper. He lolled on the bed as Mark washed dishes, talking excitedly about the future and always bringing Mark in as if the outfit would be half his.

  “We’ve got to lay in more grub and a hell of a lot more ammunition,” Bronco said, “in case them Paiutes do get boogery. Andrews showed me a wagon road over the Paradise Hills. Ain’t much, but we’ll get a wagon over it all right. Andrews says there’s a sawmill north of the fort. Come spring, we’ll haul lumber in and build a house. A big house, by God. I’ll find a woman, too.” He laughed. “Man needs a woman.”

  “Nobody’s going to get rich very fast with two hundred head of cattle,” Mark said.

  “You think we’re gonna sit pat with two hundred head?” Bronco asked. “Why, hell, there’s no end to what we can do with this valley long as we control all of it. It won’t be two hundred head. It’ll be two thousand. Maybe more. We’ll put up a barn. A bunkhouse. A cook shack. Mark, all of a sudden I feel like a colt turned into grass up to his belly. We’ll have to work, but we can do it.”

  Mark went on washing dishes, saying nothing, but he couldn’t keep from wondering where the money was coming from. Bronco was not a man to dream without having some idea of how he was going to work the dream out, but it was incredible to Mark that he had the kind of money he’d need to do everything he was talking about.

  Bronco got up and yawned. “I forgot to tell you. I’m riding south to the Triangle R to see about driving our steers to Winnemucca. When I come back, we’ll start rounding ’em up. Gonna be a job for the two of us ’cause they ain’t started down out of the mountains yet. I’ll be gone two, three days. You can find plenty to do. Get some wood in if you run out of chores. I don’t want to get cold this winter.”

  Bronco left the next morning, still intoxicated from his dream that had grown bigger during the night. He had not returned two days later when Herb Jackson rode in. When he saw Mark, his first question was: “Where’s Orry Andrews?”

  “Sold out to Bronco Curtis the morning after we left your place,” Mark said. “He left the same day. Didn’t take anything but his buckskin, his Henry rifle, and some clothes.”

  Jackson’s face turned gray. “Where’s Curtis?”

  “Went to the Triangle R to see about driving our steers south with their herd. Andrews said there was about thirty ready to go. Get down, Mister Jackson, and set a while.”

  Jackson shook his head. “I can’t stay. Looks like I’ve got work to do. Which way did Orry go when he left?”

  “Up the creek.”

  “Alone?”

  “No, Bronco went with him. Wanted Andrews to tell him all he could about the range, he said.”

  Jackson’s lips squeezed together so tightly they pursed out on both sides and turned white. He reached up and shifted his glasses higher on his nose. Then he said in a low tone: “Orry Andrews would never leave this country without telling me and Ruth good bye. Think that over, boy. Think it over carefully.”

  He wheeled his horse and rode away. Mark, staring after him, thought about what Jackson had implied without actually saying it, and instantly built a defense for Bronco in his mind. Bronco Curtis was a tough, unyielding man, a man to be feared, a getting man by his own admission. “But he’s not a murderer, not a cold-blooded murderer.” Only after the words had come out of his mouth did Mark realize he had said them aloud, shouting them at Jackson, who was too far away to hear, but he shouted again: “He wouldn’t kill a man for $3,000.”

  Then he was silent, a little sick as he wondered what Bronco would do when he heard what Jackson had said.

  Chapter Seven

  Bronco returned late the day after Herb Jackson’s visit. He said: “Mark, that Triangle R is some outfit. A big stone house, stockade corrals, the biggest damned barn you ever seen, and the finest horses I ever laid eyes on. This John Runyan’s a man who sure knows how to enjoy hisself. Dresses and acts like a Spanish don. Some of his fancy California friends were visiting, so they had horse races every day I was there. They were betting like fools. Why, I seen as much as $1,000 change hands on one race.”

  He led his horse into the stable and rubbed him down. “Glad you got things cleaned up around here. Andrews was a lazy booger.” He glanced at Mark. “Get along all right?”

  “Sure,” Mark said.

  “In a couple of weeks we’ll start our gather. I’ll go with the Triangle R drive. Runyan’s a real neighborly gent. Says he’s got a couple of carpenters he’ll send me next summer and they can build our house. Come spring, I’ll buy two, three hundred head of cows and some good bulls. We’ll get another work team and a new mower. Runyan says to put up plenty of hay. Seems like we get more winter up here ’cause we’re closer to the mountains.”

  Bronco fed his horse and stepped outside. “A lot to do and a lot to learn.” He nodded at the rim to the south. “Runyan says to build rock fences in the breaks of that rim so our stock won’t drift south. Same down there at the mouth of the valley. Tomorrow I’ll take the wagon and go to the fort. We need more grub, and I want to see about having lumber sawed for the house.”

  “Let’s eat,” Mark said. “I figured you’d be home tonight.”

  Bronco laughed and slapped Mark a great blow on the back. “Home! Damned if that word don’t have a good sound to it.”

  Mark could not bring himself to mention Jackson’s visit until after they had finished supper. Then he said: “Herb Jackson was here yesterday.”

  “Yeah?” Bronco seemed surprised. “What�
��d he want?”

  “He was looking for Orry Andrews. Said Andrews wouldn’t leave the country without saying good bye, but Jackson hadn’t seen anything of Andrews.”

  “Well, was that our fault? What was he getting at?”

  “He didn’t come right out and say. I told him Andrews sold out to you and left that same morning, and you’d gone with him from here.”

  Bronco shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “It’s none of my business what Andrews done or where he went after he left here. As far as I’m concerned, Jackson can stay on his side of the hills. He looked like an old maid to me. John Runyan’s different. He’s the kind of man I’m gonna be. Just give me time. When I come back from Winnemucca, I’ll ride up along the west side of Shadow Mountain and visit Rocking Chair. I hear it’s as big as the Triangle R, and Dave Nolan’s a man like Runyan. Runyan’s been in the country for eight years, Nolan six. I dunno about Matt Ardell on Bearpaw, but he’s a hell of a long ways from here. I’ll see him some other time.”

  Bronco got up and went to the bed. He fell across it as if he were too tired to sit. “Get started cutting wood?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you cleaned the place up good. We’ll make out this winter. Next spring we’ll show Runyan and Nolan what it is to grow. We’ll do in one year what they’ve done in six and eight. Runyan said we could keep four, maybe five thousand head of cattle here. We’ll never get as big as the Triangle R ’cause we ain’t got as much range as Runyan’s got, but we’ll be big enough.”

  He sat up and tugged off his boots, then fell back on the bed again. “Mister, I’m tired.” He sat up again. “Mark, we ain’t gonna be living off the fat of the land for a while, but the day will come when we’ll get our pay. How about it? You gonna stay with me?”

  Mark had started to clear the table. He stopped to look at Bronco, a little surprised at the question. He had never forgotten that night on Crooked River when Bronco had called him a wet-nosed kid. Well, he had been, but he wasn’t now.