Ten Mile Valley

by Wayne D. Overholser

  Irritated by his hesitation, Bronco said: “I suppose I’ll come back some night and find you gone.”

  “I was just thinking,” Mark said. “You were pretty sore once about having to nurse a wet-nosed kid. …”

  “So that’s what’s eating you. Hell, you were then, but you had enough savvy to learn. I’ve seen kids raised in the Willamette Valley. Nine times out of ten they can’t make the grade over here. You can. I want somebody to stay here while I’m sashaying around. Somebody I can trust. I can’t pay you anything now, but I’m not paying myself, neither. You can see how it is. I’ve got ten places to put every dollar I’ve got. A bed to sleep in and something to eat. That’s all I’ve got to offer and all I can pay myself. How about it?”

  Mark sat down at the table and rubbed his forehead. Strange how his memory had been stirred by what Bronco had said. He remembered his hopes and dreams, and those of his father, and how his mother had not wanted to come but hadn’t really objected, either, because she was willing to do what her husband wanted.

  He remembered how green and cool the Willamette Valley had been, how his mother had cried when they’d left the farm, but to him and his father the trip had been a new and wonderful adventure from the day they had started. Then that night on the Deschutes when they had almost reached the destination. …

  He got up and walked to the door. Night now, the south rim looking like a heavy pencil line drawn across the low edge of the sky. The day had been hot and dry. Even with the sun down, the wind carried the heat down the valley, stirring the air but bringing little relief. The creek was so low he could hardly hear it. The coyotes were starting their night song, the sound coming clearly to him.

  He turned to Bronco. “I’ll be here,” he said. That was all. Bronco nodded and lay back on the bed.

  Later, when Mark lay beside Bronco on the bed, he considered this decision he had made. “Partner,” Bronco had called him, and he nearly always said “we” instead of “I.” But the arrangement had its bad points, too. Indirectly Mark would be responsible for anything Bronco did. The thought made him uneasy, for he could not forget that Bronco had called himself a getting man.

  Mark had a nightmare that night. He was looking into the wagon again and seeing his parents with blood all over them, and he was crying out: “They’re dead. They’re dead.” Bronco shook him awake. “Damn it, let a man sleep,” he said in a cranky voice, and Mark laid back again, wet with sweat and tired and very lonely.

  For some reason the loneliness lingered whether Bronco was home or not. They worked like madmen, Bronco always on the run and hating the time it took to bring a load of supplies from the fort. He’d spoken for the lumber next spring. Doors and windows, too. They’d have a fine house and good barn, he said, and one of these days he’d find a woman.

  Mark started cutting the smaller pines on the hill above the house for wood, and Bronco helped him when he got back from the store. Then it was time to gather the cattle, and both were in the saddle from sunup to sundown. Bronco picked out twenty-eight Cross Seven steers to take to Winnemucca. The rest of the cattle were in good shape, the calves big and healthy.

  “Even with the cold weather,” Bronco said, “we’ll get a good calf crop. That’s why these California men come here. A lot more disease where it’s warm, anthrax and such. Runyan was telling about a man named Jacob Smith. I’d heard about him. He’s a big California cattleman, a millionaire, I guess. He shows up in Winnemucca every fall and buys and ships to California. Last year he told Andrews he’d never seen bigger steers than the ones Andrews shipped. I reckon we won’t have any trouble selling the little jag we’ve got.”

  Mark found the constant riding hard work, but he enjoyed it until the last day, when they took a final swing into the mountains to be sure they hadn’t missed a bunch that might have been hiding in the brush. They were five miles north of Ten Mile Valley in heavy timber when they ran into Herb Jackson, Jackson as surprised as they were.

  They reined up, Bronco demanding: “What are you doing on Cross Seven range?”

  The question was not a civil one, and it wasn’t asked in a civil tone. Jackson was silent for a moment, looking at Bronco, and then at Mark. He seemed a little more stooped and a little grayer than the last time Mark had seen him, when Bronco was gone. Jackson wasn’t armed, Mark saw, but if he was frightened or worried, he did not show it.

  “I’m looking for Orry Andrews,” he said. “Where did you bury him?”

  Mark was not surprised at the question, but Bronco was. His dark face turned almost purple in a violent burst of rage, and he shouted: “What kind of god-damned question is that?”

  Jackson was either stupid or brave. Mark wasn’t sure which, but he decided it didn’t make any difference because this was going to wind up in a killing if Mark didn’t stop it. He eased his rifle out of the boot as Jackson said: “I knew Orry Andrews well. I was his only neighbor, and we visited back and forth once a week or more from the time Ruth and I moved here three years ago. I am not surprised he sold to you, but, having sold, he would never have left the country without seeing Ruth and me. He didn’t show up, Curtis. He would have if he’d left Cross Seven range alive. I believe you killed him, took the money you’d given him for his property, and buried him up here in the mountains.”

  “I suppose I buried his horse and saddle, too,” Bronco said.

  “Perhaps,” Jackson agreed. “I know I’m looking for a needle in a haystack because you probably buried him well, but, if I find him, I’ll see you hang for it.”

  “You won’t prove nothing if you do find him,” Bronco said hotly. “Someone else might have done it.”

  “I know I didn’t kill him,” Jackson said, “and there’s no one else except the boy.” He nodded at Mark. “I’m sure he didn’t. Even if Andrews had run into somebody else, he wouldn’t have been killed for money because you were the only one who knew he had it.”

  Bronco had held his anger in check, but now it got away from him. He drew his gun, shouting: “You son-of-a-bitch, you’re not going around telling them lies to nobody else!”

  “Don’t, Bronco,” Mark said.

  Bronco turned his head to look at the rifle in Mark’s hands. It was lined on his belly. He asked incredulously: “You’d kill me to save this bastard’s hide?”

  “I’ll kill you to keep you from murdering a man,” Mark said.

  Bronco wet his lips and nodded at Jackson. “Get out of here. Don’t ever let me see you on Cross Seven range again.”

  Jackson wheeled his horse and disappeared into the timber. As Mark slipped the rifle back into the boot, Bronco said in a low voice: “I ought to beat hell out of you.”

  “Don’t try it,” Mark said. “You’re big enough to do it, but, if you do, you’d better kill me. If you don’t, I’ll kill you. I agreed to stay here and work. I didn’t agree to take any whippings.”

  Bronco laughed, the anger leaving him. “By God, I believe you would. I knew you had some sand in your craw. Just tell me one thing. Why did you keep me from beefing Jackson?”

  “You figure on building a big outfit here,” Mark said. “You told me I was your partner. I’ve got a stake to protect, haven’t I? If you’d shot him, you couldn’t have stayed.”

  “Why not?”

  “One man might disappear on Cross Seven range and not make trouble, but a second man would start people asking questions. Besides, Jackson’s got a daughter. She’d kick up a fuss if nobody else did.”

  “Makes sense.” Bronco studied Mark a moment, then asked: “You don’t think I plugged Andrews and took the money?”

  Mark shook his head. “I wouldn’t be staying if I did.”

  “I was sure gonna plug Jackson,” Bronco said. “You knew it, or you wouldn’t have jerked your rifle out.”

  “Killing a man when you’re mad is one thing,” Mark said, “but you weren’t mad at Andrews. Shooting a man for his money is cold-blooded murder, and I don’t figure you could do it.”


  “That’s right,” Bronco said. “I couldn’t. Well, let’s see if we missed any of our steers yesterday.”

  In spite of his assurance that he didn’t believe Bronco had shot Andrews, questions began piling up in Mark’s mind. He liked and trusted Jackson. He wasn’t sure why unless it was because he sensed a simple honesty about the man that reminded him of his father.

  On the other hand, he realized how ruthless the drive in Bronco Curtis was. He knew where he wanted to go, and he had to get there fast. Now Mark remembered how worried he had been when he had ridden with Bronco to Jackson’s ranch and he had expected Bronco to force Jackson to sell.

  The truth was Bronco needed working capital. If he had used all of his money to pay Andrews, the temptation would have been strong to take it back. Maybe he hadn’t intended to kill the man; maybe Andrews had resisted and had tried to kill Bronco, and Bronco had shot him to save his own life. But that was no excuse if it had happened that way. The one big inescapable fact that Mark could not overlook was Jackson’s insistence that Andrews had not stopped to say good bye.

  They were friends. Jackson was certain Andrews would have stopped if he had been alive. Why hadn’t he? And if Jackson was right, who besides Bronco would have shot Andrews? Was it possible that some drifter going through the country had stumbled onto Andrews and killed him? Mark didn’t think so. Andrews didn’t look like a man who would be carrying $3,000, and no one had known about the sale of his ranch except Mark and Bronco.

  So the questions grew until they became staggering doubts and Mark knew he could not let the matter go. After supper he asked: “Where did Andrews go after you left him?”

  Bronco stared at Mark a long moment before he answered, his dark face showing surprise and then hurt. Finally he said: “Well, by God, you lied. You told me you didn’t think I shot Andrews and took the money, but you didn’t mean a damned word of it, did you?”

  Mark felt his face burn, but he said doggedly: “I asked a question. I’ve got a right to an answer.”

  “All right, I’ll give you one.” Bronco rose, so angry it was difficult for him to speak. “The last I saw of him he was riding north through the timber. I reckon he was heading for Cañon City. Don’t ask me why he didn’t tell Jackson good bye. I don’t know. Maybe he figured Jackson would ask to borrow some of the dinero, and he didn’t want to turn Jackson down. All I know is that Jackson’s sore because Andrews didn’t stop on his way out of the country, so he’s trying to ease his own pride by making me out a back-shooting killer.”

  Then Bronco’s temper roared away from him, and he slapped the table with the palm of his hand. “I won’t have a partner who don’t believe me. If you think I’m a liar, get to hell out of here. You’ve got your choice, boy. It’s me or Jackson.”

  For a moment Mark’s eyes met Bronco’s angry ones, and suddenly he was ashamed as he remembered how much he owed Bronco. Mark had never known Bronco to lie. Andrews could have done exactly what Bronco had said. Until there was evidence that proved him guilty, Mark had to believe him.

  “I don’t think you’re a liar,” Mark said. “I just had to know.”

  “All right,” Bronco said sullenly. “I don’t want to hear another word about it, and I don’t want to ever see Herb Jackson on Cross Seven range again. If you see him, tell him.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Mark said.

  That was the end of it, Mark thought. He believed Bronco. If you lived with a man and you worked with him and you called him your partner, you had to believe him.

  The next day Mark helped drive the twenty-eight steers as far south as the shoulder of Shadow Mountain, then Bronco sent him back, saying it was open country from there to the Triangle R and he could manage.

  The last of the week Ruth Jackson rode to the Cross Seven. She heard Mark cutting wood on the hill and hunted until she found him. He straightened, releasing the handle of the cross-cut saw, and took off his hat. He said: “Sure good to see someone. Won’t you get down?”

  She shook her head, smiling at him, her cheeks bright from the cold. She was wearing a leather jacket over her blouse and on her head a red scarf, which hid most of her black hair.

  “I can’t stay,” she said. “It’ll be almost dark when I get home.”

  She was silent a moment, looking at the wood he’d cut, and it seemed to him she wasn’t as shy as she had been when he’d eaten supper in her house. She was prettier, too, with the color in her cheeks, and suddenly the loneliness that had plagued him these last weeks was in him again.

  He had a wild and crazy desire to ask her to stay with him until Bronco came back, or to let him go home with her. Instead, he compromised by asking: “Would it be all right if I came to see you?” Then he added quickly: “And your father?”

  “It would be all right,” she said. “Pa would be glad to see you.” His question had made her shy again, and she glanced away. “Is Curtis here?”

  “No, he took our steers south.”

  “I’m glad. I didn’t want to see him. Pa said Curtis would have killed him if it hadn’t been for you. I came over to thank you for saving Pa’s life.”

  “No need for thanks,” Mark said. “I couldn’t let Bronco do it.”

  “Will you have dinner with us Sunday?” she asked. “Tomorrow?”

  He had not realized the next day was Sunday. One day had been like another for so long that he had stopped wondering what day in the week it was. Once more childhood memories crowded into his mind. He had gone to Albany with his parents every Sunday to church.

  “I’d like to come,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll look for you,” she said, and rode away.

  He sat down on the log and watched her as long as he could see her, a trim, graceful figure in the saddle. A lump crowded up into his throat so he couldn’t swallow. Strange how some things reminded him of his folks and his home in the Willamette Valley, more now than during the summer when he’d been riding every day with Bronco.

  Maybe it was because he was alone so much lately. Or maybe it was because he was over the shock and now fully realized that his boyhood was gone. He had to make his own life, and wasn’t sure, even yet, that the life he wanted was here with Bronco Curtis.

  He could not bear to sit and remember. He jumped up, grabbed the handle of the cross-cut, and feverishly attacked the log.

  Chapter Eight

  Mark rode into the Jackson yard shortly before noon. Herb Jackson met him and shook hands with him after he had dismounted, and walked beside him to the corral. He asked: “Curtis go south with the Triangle R drive?”

  Mark nodded as he stripped gear from his sorrel and turned him into the corral. “We only had twenty-eight steers to go. I guess Runyan was glad to have an extra hand, and I don’t suppose it’s any more trouble to take our twenty-eight along than it would be to go without them.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Jackson said. “Right there is where the rest of us little fellows are in a bind. I’ve been lucky enough to sell a few steers at the fort, but it isn’t a big market, and there are a lot of us in the hills trying to sell to the military.”

  “What do you mean, you’re in a bind?”

  “We don’t have a big neighbor like John Runyan who’ll take our stock like he takes the Cross Seven,” Jackson answered. “He always took Andrews’s, so he probably figured he would go on the same with whoever bought Cross Seven. I don’t know what his object is unless he just wants to keep Curtis happy so he won’t steal Triangle R cows.”

  “All of you in Sherman Valley could throw in together,” Mark said. “The small outfits, I mean.”

  “We’d still have a small herd,” Jackson said. “We don’t know the buyers at Winnemucca, so we’d have trouble selling. But the big obstacle is the fact that there isn’t any route we can follow unless we swing west over the high desert. And we’d lose our herd if we did that. Not enough water. You see, neither Dave Nolan nor Matt Ardell will let us drive across their ranges. I don’t suppose Run
yan would, either, but that’s beside the point. It would be too far out of our way to go through Triangle R.”

  They started toward the house, Jackson silent for a moment, before he said: “I sent Ruth to invite you to dinner because she’d be safe. I wasn’t sure Curtis would be gone. After he told me to stay off Cross Seven range, I knew what would happen if I showed up.”

  He glanced at Mark, smiling faintly. “I was foolish to accuse him the way I did. I wasn’t armed, and, knowing he’d killed Orry Andrews, I should have realized he’d kill me. The truth is I didn’t think that far. I just had the idea that, if I threw it in his teeth, he’d get jumpy enough to admit the killing. Well, if you hadn’t been there, I’d be a dead man. So I wanted to thank you.”

  “That’s all right,” Mark said, embarrassed. “I hated to throw a gun on my partner, but I couldn’t let him kill you.”

  “Partner?” Jackson said, his brows lifting.

  “He calls me that,” Mark said.

  Jackson showed his doubt and let it drop there. He said: “I think dinner’s about ready. Let’s wash up and not keep Ruth waiting. She gets a little impatient with me sometimes.”

  They washed, then Mark found a comb stuck between two logs and ran it through his hair. It didn’t do much good, even though he had sloshed water on his hair. It flared back up, as stiff as a horse’s tail. He turned from the mirror, disgusted.

  He looked like a tramp. He didn’t even own a decent-looking shirt. Jackson’s shirt had been ironed, and he remembered how his mother used to iron his clothes with meticulous care. But that, he told himself, was something else that belonged to his past.

  Ruth called them to dinner. Mark spoke to her as he went into the kitchen, and she smiled and spoke to him, and he thought she had lost the shyness he had sensed the first time he’d seen her. She was wearing a dark blue skirt, a blouse of lighter blue, and a white apron over her skirt, and with her black hair pinned on top of her head in a sort of coronet she seemed very tall.

  She was a woman, Mark thought as he sat down at the table, a woman who wouldn’t remain single long in a country where wives were hard to get. The thought bothered him as he ate. It would be a long time before he could take a wife, and he would be a fool even to think of asking her to wait.