Blood Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  “Ride him down!” that woman screamed, for no good reason that I could think of. “Nobody stands in our way.”

  Now that made me mad.

  I never could abide no one that thought he or she was so almighty big they could just run over other people. I have whupped more than two or three in my time.

  Them ol’ boys come a-foggin’ straight at me. I stepped back, judged the speed of that lead hoss, and when he come even with me, I just reached up and snatched that redheaded young rider off the horse and flung him not-too-gently to the dirt.

  The brand on the horse’s hip that the horse’s ass had been ridin’ was Circle L.

  The wind was knocked out of the cowboy on the ground, but them others had made the turn down at the far end of the street and was lookin’ at me. That she-person sittin’ astride had hate in her eyes that I could read from this distance.

  Me? I just quick-stepped on across that street and was up on the boardwalk ’fore they could do anything more about it.

  “Somebody get Rusty!” the woman yelled. “We’ll deal with that saddle tramp later.”

  So now I was a saddle tramp. Well, hell, I’d been called a lot worse than that.

  Leanin’ against the support post of the awning over the boardwalk, I watched as the woman said something to a big gent on a midnight-black horse. He rode down my way, wheeled in, and sat starin’ at me.

  The gent was a big, handsome-lookin’ man, and his clothes was expensive-lookin’. I say handsome, but his face was cruel-lookin’ .

  Real slow and dramatic-like, he dug in a pocket of his leather vest and hauled out a timepiece, smilin’ at me as he clicked it open.

  “Two hours,” he said, clickin’ the watch shut. “That’s how long we’re gonna be in town. And that’s how long you got ’til you get roped and dragged. No saddle bum puts a hand on any Circle L rider.”

  “You the one who roped and drug one of the lawmen a time back?”

  His eyes narrowed. I reckon he was tryin’ to figure out how I came to know that.

  “You’re a nosy bastard, ain’t you, saddle bum?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Let’s just say I’m the curious type. And you didn’t answer my question, neither.”

  “Why should I waste my time talking to a tramp?”

  “Hell, you come to me, not the other way around, remember?”

  His face flushed up red and his eyes turned real ugly.

  “You won’t be near about as mouthy when I get through with you, punk!”

  I laughed at him.

  He wheeled around and left me in a cloud of dust.

  He had him a big mouth, but he had the size to back it up, too. Looked to be about six feet, four, two hundred and thirty or forty pounds.

  I spat in the street. I just wasn’t all that impressed.

  Chapter Two

  Steppin’ out onto the boardwalk, I checked my timepiece—the sun. In an hour’s time, I’d had me a shave and a good hot bath. Had to dump the water three times ’fore I got clean. Before I done all the spit and polishin’, I’d bought some new duds at the Emporium. If I was gonna be sheriff, I figured I’d best look the part.

  I left my new suit and some shirts and britches at the Chinaman’s place, and now I was all decked out in spankin’ new duds, bandana tied proper around my neck. Them new boots felt good. ’Course my socks and long johns was new, too.

  Socks fit fine, but that new underwear was just a mite itchy.

  I went back to the office and hung that second gun on, left side, butt forward. I ain’t as fast with it as I was my right-side gun, but I ain’t been beat with it, neither.

  It was a gambler’s gun, meanin’ the barrel was some shorter than my right-side .44.

  Checkin’ myself in the mirror—noticin’ that I hadn’t got no prettier—I gave my cowlick a lick and put my hat on. It was old, but I’d had Wong brush it off while I was wallowin’ around in the tub out back.

  From pure habit, I checked both guns, left the hammer thong off my gambler’s gun, pinned on the star, and stepped out onto the boardwalk.

  Half a block down, I stepped into George Waller’s general store. I have always loved the smell of a general store. The leather, tobacco, spices, and pickle barrel all mingled their smells together. I got me a cracker and a hunk of cheese and a pickle, munching on that while I waited for George to finish with a customer.

  “Yes, sir, Sheriff?”

  “Circle L man who rides a black horse. He’s about as big as the horse. And he’s got a big fat mouth.”

  “Ah . . . Sheriff . . . that’s, ah, Big Mike Romain. He’s the foreman at Circle L.”

  “Is that supposed to impress me? I can tell you he don’t.”

  “Well, ah, no, Sheriff. Not at all. But Big Mike is a bad man to fool with. You’ve had trouble with Big Mike? Already?”

  “That wild woman with him ordered her boys to ride me down. Then this Big Mike tells me he’s gonna have me roped and drug. And the more I think on it, the madder I’m gettin’!”

  “I don’t blame you. Now you see what the good citizens of this town have to put up with, Sheriff. And why lawmen ain’t lasted too long.”

  “You just never had the right lawman. George, you depend on the Circle L for a livin’?”

  He picked up on my drift right quick. He smiled and shook his head. “No, Sheriff. This part of the territory is filling up with ranchers and farmers. We hired you to keep the peace. No one is immune from the law. No one!”

  Fancy words. But I wondered if, when it got down to the humpin’, would George and the others really back me up?

  Belle had been listenin’ from the open door. “That Mike Romain is nothing more than a brute!” She stamped her foot. Good-sized foot, I noticed. That foot-stompin’ knocked a trace chain off a peg.

  And I had me a hunch that Belle would like to hang a saddle on that “brute” and try to ride him.

  Nodding my head at George and smiling at Belle, I took my leave. As I was walkin’ up the boardwalk, I heard Belle say, “Oh, what a handsome man, Mister Waller. I think I’m going to swoon.”

  I picked up my pace, not wantin’ to be around if she did come down with the vapors. It’d take a mule team and a pulley to get her back on her feet.

  Walking to the Wolf’s Den Saloon, I pushed open the batwings and stepped inside, pausing for a second to let my eyes adjust to the sudden dimness. I walked to a table and sat down, my back to the wall.

  The place had hushed somewhat as I walked, my big spurs jingling. All had taken some notice of the badge on my shirt.

  And Big Mike’s eyes had narrowed considerable.

  “What’ll it be, Sheriff?” the barkeep called.

  “Beer.”

  The beer was cold and good and I knocked back half the mug. Setting the mug down on the table, I said, “’Bout two hours ago, there was this big-mouthed, overbearin’, candy-assed son of a bitch who told me he was gonna rope and drag me. Well . . . here I am.”

  Man, that place got so quiet you could hear a fly fart!

  Folks started movin’ chairs back, out of the line of fire. Big Mike had stiffened when I called him that name, as any man with any pride would have done. Now he turned to face me, his face ugly with hate.

  “You might not like me, Sheriff,” Mike said. “But my mother was a good woman. I’ll not have her name slurred in such a manner.”

  I took my time thinkin’ about that. “All right. It ain’t your momma’s fault what you turned out to be.”

  That really pissed him off.

  “You . . . !” He strangled on his anger.

  “But the big-mouthed, overbearin’, candy-ass stands,” I said.

  He was so mad he was tremblin’.

  I looked around for the woman who’d ordered me rode down. She wasn’t in the saloon. Might be hopes for her yet . . . but I kinda doubted it, considerin’ the company she kept. There was a lady in the saloon, however. But I figured her for the owner, way she was all decked o
ut in satin with her petticoats showin’. She was kinda familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place the face.

  “Git him, Rusty!” a cowboy said.

  The cowboy I’d jerked out of the saddle and dumped in the street stepped forward. Another one of those two-gun types, hung low and tied down. Matter of fact, I’d noticed that nearly all the Circle L boys was wearin’ two guns, and they all had a salty look about them . . . like maybe they was drawin’ fightin’ wages.

  But the cowboy called Rusty had kind of a different look about him—like maybe he didn’t really like what he was doin’. But the pay was good, so he’d try it.

  Now he wasn’t so sure about it.

  I stood up, the thumb of my right hand restin’ on my belt buckle, the fingers just inches from the butt of that gambler’s gun.

  “Let Rusty take the bum, Mike,” a puncher said.

  Mike smiled. “I guess you’ve got first dibs, Rusty. He did dump you in the street.”

  But Rusty didn’t appear all that eager. Not that he was afraid, for I didn’t believe he was. I think he was just a pretty good ol’ boy who’d got caught up in a bad deal.

  “You realize I can put you in jail for bracin’ me, don’t you, Rusty?”

  Mike sneered at me. “That badge supposed to make you a big man, saddle bum?”

  “No. But it does make me the law.”

  Everybody in the place, except for the lady and Rusty, thought that was real funny. That woman kept starin’ at me, like she was tryin’ to figure out where she’d seen me.

  “Sheriff,” she said. “Did you ride for the Hilderbrant outfit up in Montana Territory a few years back?”

  “Yep,” I did not take my eyes off of the cowboy named Rusty.

  “Thought it was you. I seen you brace them three Reno Brothers in that boomtown just south of the Little Belt Mountains.”

  “Yeah. Knowed I’d seen you somewheres.”

  All them hardcases in the room was listenin’ real close.

  “I helped take up the collection to bury all three of them boys,” the woman added softly.

  Any steam that Rusty might have built up left him a hell of a lot quicker than it come to him. His face suddenly got sweaty and he come up out of that gunfighter’s crouch, his mouth hangin’ open.

  “You better shut that trap, cowboy,” I told him. “Flies is bad for this early in the season.”

  His mouth closed with a smack.

  “Your name Cotton?” the woman asked.

  “Yep.”

  All of a sudden there was a lot of ol’ boys lookin’ in ever’ which direction . . . not at me. Like I said, I wasn’t unknown when it come to gunslickin’. I just never made no big deal out of it.

  “Heard of you,” Big Mike said. “But I think I’m better.”

  “One way to find out.”

  But Mike was real careful to keep his hands away from his guns.

  I killed my first Injun when I was ten years old, a Blackfoot, if I recall right. A whole bunch of ’em was tryin’ to bust into our cabin, and the west wall was mine to protect. I killed my first white man when I was about thirteen. He was tryin’ to steal our milk cow. Fever got my folks shortly after that. My brothers and sisters was farmed out to neighbors, but I took off, and I been on my own lonesome hustle ever since. I reckon I have picked up the name of gunfighter, but it wasn’t nothin’ I went lookin’ for.

  Rusty looked like he was comin’ down with something terrible contagious. He backed up, his hands relaxed, palms up.

  “Take him, Rusty!” Big Mike shouted. “That’s an order.”

  “Hell with your orders! You want him so bad, you take him. Come to think of it,” the redhead said, “I ain’t never seen none of your graveyards.”

  “You insolent yellow pup!” Mike slapped him, the blow knocking the smaller man to the sawdust.

  The kid had sand, I’ll give him that. He come up off that floor and took a swing at Big Mike. ’Bout like a gnat tryin’ to fight a mosquito hawk. Big Mike hit him once, a hard straight right, and Rusty hit the floor and didn’t move.

  Big Mike dug in his pocket and tossed a handful of silver coins to the floor and on Rusty. “Let’s ride!” he barked. Then looked at me. “I’ll see you around . . . Sheriff.”

  That “Sheriff” bit was greasy. “Yeah, I imagine you will, Romain. ’Cause you gonna screw up, and when you do, I’m gonna put your big ass in jail.”

  “You’ll play hell ever doing that!” he blustered.

  “Then I reckon I’ll just have to shoot you, Romain. Why don’t we settle it now?”

  “Mike!” a woman squalled. I recognized the squall. The same woman who wanted me rode down.

  “Saved by a woman. You’re a lucky man, Romain.”

  That got next to him. I really thought he was gonna jerk iron. But he just turned his big butt to me and walked out, his punchers trailin’ along behind him.

  Kneeling down by Rusty, I noted that he was gonna have a shiner for a few days.

  “I’ll get him a beefsteak,” the woman said. “Couple of you boys haul him up and sit him over there.”

  The barkeep leaned over and dumped a pitcher of water on the puncher. Sputtering and shaking his head, Rusty sat up, allowing the boys to drag him to a table and sit him down.

  I got me another beer and one for Rusty. The woman—she introduced herself as Mary—brought a beefsteak out and Rusty held it to the side of his face.

  “How old are you, Rusty?” I asked.

  “Twenty.” He grinned and I liked him immediately. “And for a minute there, Mister Cotton, I didn’t think I was gonna get much older, neither.”

  “How’d you get tied up with Circle L?”

  “Signed on to shove beeves around. Then the word come down about six months back, that anyone who wanted to ride for the brand had best be ready to fight for it. Some left, I stayed, figuring the f ightin’ wages would come in handy.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I was gonna quit come payday anyhow.”

  “How good are you with them hoglegs?”

  “Better than average, I reckon. But not near’bouts in your class.”

  “You ain’t worried about what people’s gonna say?”

  “’Bout me backin’ down?”

  I nodded.

  “Hell, no! I’m alive!”

  I returned his grin. “That’s your money layin’ over yonder on the floor.”

  Mary got her swamper to pick up the money. He laid it on the table and Rusty shoved a dollar at the old man.

  And I liked that gesture. Even though the old swamper would surely spend it on rotgut.

  “What are you gonna to do now, Rusty?”

  “I don’t know. Drift, I reckon. When Big Mike fires someone, it ain’t wise to hang around. Only two I know of that’s still around is De Graff and Burtell. They pretty salty ol’ boys. Mike’s got this hang-up about ropin’ and draggin’ folks.”

  “So I heard. How much was he payin’ you at the brand?”

  “Fifty and found.”

  “I’ll give you seventy-five and one meal a day and a place to bunk.”

  His eyes widened. “Doin’ what?”

  “Totin’ a deputy’s badge.”

  His grin was infectious. He stuck out his mitt and I shook the work-hardened hand. “You done hired yourself a deputy, Sheriff.”

  “Who’s this woman that was ridin’ with Mike Romain?”

  The middle of the afternoon, next day. Rusty had been sworn in by George Waller, and we’d spent some time cleanin’ up the office and findin’ out where things was. It had been quiet so far. We’d made a visit to all the businesses and introduced ourselves. Now we was relaxin’, sittin’ on a bench in front of the office, talkin.’

  “I thought you knew.”

  “No.”

  “That’s Joy Lawrence, A.J.’s daughter. She and Wanda Mills think they’s queens of the valley.”

  “Circle L and Rockinghorse that big?” I hadn’t had the time to ride out and inspect for my
self. Something I needed to do.

  “I should say! They’re two thirds of the Big Three, as they’re called around here. Circle L, Rockinghorse, and the Quartermoon. Matt Mills owns the Rockinghorse, Rolf Baker owns the Quartermoon. One lies at the western edge of the county, one to the north, and the other to the east.”

  “And lots of little spreads caught up in the middle, hey?”

  “You got it, Sheriff. Between the three of them, they must control close to a million acres. But don’t nobody really know for sure. You see, the nesters and small ranchers is stringin’ wire. They want to know exactly what they own and so forth. Lawrence and Mills don’t want that. They want free access to the water like they’ve always had. But the Quartermoon ain’t bad. Baker ain’t pushin’ for no more land or water; he’s got the best water and graze of ’em all. But Rockinghorse and Circle L . . .” He shook his head. “There’s gonna be a lot of blood spilt.”

  “And just the two of us standin’ in the way of it, Rusty.”

  “I give that some thought last night, Sheriff. I shore done it.”

  “But you still here.”

  He grinned. “I like it when things get to jumpin’.”

  I laughed at him. It was the same old story, and I’d been caught up in similar situations before. Some people get a lot, and they want more, and they get to feelin’ that they’re kings. It had been that way up in Montana Territory when I’d been ridin’ for Hilderbrandt. Ol’ boy name of Williston had him a big spread and got power mad, shovin’ and killin’. He just had to have more land. He finally got his wish when he braced that ol’ salty dog, Hilderbrandt. Williston got him six feet more land. That was right after I dropped them Reno boys.

  “I heard about them Reno Brothers,” Rusty said softly. “I heard they was real fast.”

  “They wasn’t fast enough. Well, one of ’em was, I reckon. He beat me to the draw but he put his first bullet in the dirt. Rusty, how come the sheriffs don’t last long in this county?”

  Rusty grunted. “I hope you ain’t thinkin’ that I had anything to do with any of that mess, Sheriff.”

  “I don’t. George Waller said you was a good boy that just turned briefly down the wrong road.”