Blood Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  Lookin’ around, I could see a few of the real gunhawks thought it funny, too. But most didn’t like it worth a damn . . . or me, either. And some, like Haufman, wore looks of pure hate on their faces.

  Behind the piano, the man wearin’ a derby hat all cocked back on his head was looking a tad green around the mouth. “You!” I called to him. “You know any Christian songs?”

  He gulped a couple of times. “Yes, sir!”

  “Then play one!”

  He started playin’ something that wasn’t familiar to me, but it did sound sort of religious.

  I picked up the tune and started hummin’ along . . . sounded kinda like a one-lung bullfrog with a bad case of the sore throat.

  Johnny Bull, he laughed at my singin’, but he commenced to hum right along with me, grinnin’ all the time. He was enjoyin’ it!

  But the others wasn’t.

  The piano player ended the tune and turned a sweaty face towards me. “How about ‘Rock of Ages,’ Sheriff?”

  “That’s a good one. I know some of that one. Play it. And this time,” I looked around the room, “ever’body’s gonna join in.”

  That 88 player, he give them keys a long rip and set to it. Man, you never heard such a ragged bunch of voices in all your life. But them that was hesitant about singin’, why they just looked at De Graff with a Greener in his hands, then at me and Rusty and Burtell, and they all lifted their voices in joyous singin’ to the Lord, just like their mommas had taught them.

  After that was over, we sang “Washed In The Blood” until the windows was rattlin’.

  A crowd had begun to gather on the boardwalk, and it was growin’ in size.

  Then Big Mike come a-pushin’ and shovin’ through the crowd.

  “What in the goddamn hell is going on in here?” he shouted.

  “You hush up that blasphemous talk, you heathen!” I yelled at him, turning to face him, my right hand poised over the butt of that .44. “We’re havin’ an after-the-service service. A-praisin’ the Lord and a-helpin’ that girl and her pa find their way through the Pearly Gates.”

  “Have mercy and praise the Lord!” Johnny Bull laughed, slapping his hands together. “Only thing we ain’t got is no eatin’ on the grounds.”

  “I got some hard-boiled eggs!” the barkeep blurted.

  “Well, bless it and toss it over here,” Johnny called.

  “Bless it?” the barkeep said.

  “Yeah!”

  The barkeep looked at the tray of eggs. He picked one up and said, “Bless this here egg and them that is about to partake of it.” He tossed the egg to Johnny.

  Big Mike now, he wasn’t no fool. It didn’t take him long to size it all up. There in that room was about thirty-five or forty of the saltiest gunhands to be found anywhere, and they had all been shoutin’ out Christian songs.

  “A Christian singing?” Big Mike said, no small amount of amazement in his voice.

  “Yeah,” I said, grinnin’ at him. “Ain’t that sweet of these ol’ boys? Don’t you think their mommas would be right proud of them? Don’t you want your mommy to be proud of you, Mike?”

  “No, by God!” Jackson Ford yelled, jumpin’ up and knocking over his chair. “I’m gonna kill you, Cotton.” He give me a good cussin’. After all that nice Christian singin’, I figured the Good Lord didn’t appreciate that, not one little bit.

  Then he grabbed for iron.

  I let him get that hogleg all the way clear of leather before I drew. It was a mite showboaty on my part, but I wanted these ol’ boys to know that Cotton was just as good or better than anyone there a-lookin’ on.

  I shot Jackson twice, once in the gut and once in the chest. He sort of stumbled back agin the wall and slid down, his gun rattlin’ on the dirty floor.

  I looked for the piano man. He was a peekin’ out from under the lip of the piano. “Git up on your stool and play that one about Jesus calmin’ the stormy seas. I was always partial to that one.”

  “I ain’t believin’ this,” Big Mike mumbled.

  I looked at him. “And you join in, too.”

  Now there was a big crowd outside, pushin’ up close to the windows, peerin’ in. Pepper and her pa was among them.

  Big Mike was hot, all right. Man, he was so mad he looked like something out of a child’s nightmare. But he was in a bind, and he was smart enough to know it. He knew all them folks outside was listenin’ to every word said.

  I raised my voice so them outside could hear it plain. “You mean, Mike, that you wouldn’t sing a Christian song in memory of that poor little girl and her pa? I can’t believe that a fine, upstandin’ citizen like you, or that you claim to be, wouldn’t sing a song for them unfortunate folks now on their way to heaven.”

  Big Mike looked at the piano man, and when he spoke, his voice was full of disgust. “Play it!” he growled.

  And then we sang. We calmed the stormy seas and then we sung a couple of Charles Wesley’s hymns . . . I ’specially liked that one about “Jesus, Look Upon A Little Child.”

  And then I passed the hat.

  Actually, I passed Big Mike’s hat. I asked him, real solemn-like, if he would be so kind as to take up the collection for Marie and her pa. Please? Man, he turned about four kinds of red.

  “I’ll return your hat to you.” I said. “And bless your heart, Mike.”

  What he said to me was mostly unprintable. Except for, “Keep the goddamn hat!” Then he hollered for his riders to clear out! Back to the ranch.

  Johnny Bull, he kinda dragged his feet to be the last Circle L hand out. He stopped by me at the bar and said, “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with what happened to that girl, Cotton.”

  “I believe you. That wasn’t your style, Johnny.”

  And it wasn’t his style. Johnny Bull was a stand-up, look-you-in-the-eyes-and-shoot-you sort of fellow. He was a hired gun, yeah, but of them all, Johnny had him a queer sense of decency about him.

  “I enjoyed it, you know that? I really did, Cotton. Took me back years, back to when I was just a little boy.”

  “Yeah. Me, too, Johnny.”

  “See you, Cotton.”

  “See you, Johnny.”

  The Circle L boys were gone, but there was still some mean ol’ boys in that barroom, them that was ridin’ for the Rockinghorse brand. And now I knew who was hired on to who.

  Still sittin’ in there was Pen Castell, Ford Childress, Fox Breckenridge, Waldo Stamps, Dick Avedon, Hank Hawthorne, Sanchez, Joe Coyle, and Tim Marks.

  I figured me and the boys had stretched our luck ’bout as far as it was gonna stretch. “Thanks, boys,” I said. “The widder Simmons will sure appreciate your gesture.” I lifted the heavy hat—Mike had him a head about the size of a hot-air balloon—and walked outside.

  “You like to live dangerously, don’t you?” Pepper asked me, her blues darkened from concern, I reckon.

  I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you to call on me, Cotton. And make it soon.”

  “I’ll sure be there.” To George Waller, “Will you tell Mister Truby he’s got hisself another customer?”

  But Truby was already hot-footin’ it up the street. Little fellow was quick after a shootin’.

  I walked over to Juan’s Cantina and stepped into the beery dimness. A bunch of clodhoppers had gathered there after the funeral. I dumped the contents of Mike’s hat onto a table.

  “One of you boys see that the widder Simmons gets this, please. It was give by some with a guilty conscience and by some who didn’t have nothin’ to do with what happened durin’ the nightridin’.”

  One of the men who’d come to the office to fetch me that tragic morning stepped over and slowly counted the money, stackin’ it up, and it come to a right smart amount. Lookin’ up at me, he said. “It’ll sure come in handy, Sheriff. We thank you.”

  “Thank me when I hang them that done it.” I thought about that. “Or shoot them,” I added. “That’s Big Mike’s hat. He do
n’t want it back. One of you can have it.”

  A farmer got up, got the hat, and walked off towards the back, to the privy, unbuttonin’ his overalls as he walked. I had me a pretty good idea what he was gonna put in that hat.

  And it wasn’t his head.

  Chapter Seven

  Steppin’ out of the office, I took a deep breath and smelled pure spring in the air. And I knowed that for the most part, except for the real high-up places, the winter was gone for this season.

  The smell of wildflowers was soft in the early morning air; a whiff of sage drifted to me, the odor of cedar and the sharpness of fresh-cut pine was all mingled in.

  One week to the day had passed since Marie and her pa had been planted. A week of peace in the area.

  But I wasn’t kiddin’ myself, I knew that peacefulness wasn’t gonna last. I’d heard reports that the Circle L and the Rockinghorse brands were hirin’ more gunslicks and were stockin’ up on ammo. I figured when it did bust loose, all hell was gonna break loose from it.

  I had gone callin’ on Miss Pepper, and we had us a picnic, with food that was fitten to eat this time around.

  I was kinda gettin’ used to and likin’ that gooey feelin’.

  When I brung Miss Pepper back to her house—and it wasn’t no palace like the Circle L mansion, just a big house with a homey, lived-in look—she’d kissed me . . . right on the lips, right there in front of God and ever’body.

  I felt that goo changin’ to quicksand. And I knew I was in trouble.

  But then, I’ve always been partial to trouble.

  Out of that quiet week’s time, I’d spent three days of it just ridin’ around the area, gettin’ to know the lay of the land and some of the people.

  People like Walt Burton, who ran a small ranching operation. People like Pete Taylor and Lee Jones, who also were small ranchers. There was a couple of farmers who ran some mighty big operations, Bob Caldwell and Bill Nelson. And lots of other men who was either farmers or ranchers or sheepmen. They all sized up to be pretty decent, hardworkin’ people.

  Unlike a lot of them who’ve spent most of their lives on the hurricane deck of a horse, shovin’ beeves around, I never objected much to sheep; I reckon that’s ’cause I’ve seen where and how sheep and cows can get along.

  There’s always been plenty of talk about what sheep do to the land. Some of it is true, some of it ain’t. If sheep are moved properly, they don’t do no permanent damage to the land, and the sheep-people I’d seen in the valley seemed to know what they was doin’.

  I met some of the sheep-tenders, Basques they was called. Seemed like nice enough folks, but kinda suspicious of me at first. But then, maybe they had good reason to be. I doubt if they had many good memories about comin’ face to face with cowboys.

  I’d hauled down a box-load of books, most of them on the law—found ’em in a wooden box stored at the office—and had taken to readin’ at least an hour a day. I even took one with me when I went ridin’ over the area. I’d read while I took my noonin’. There was a book by Shakespeare there. It was interestin’, but it was hard readin’. Just didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me.

  I took to them words written by Lord Byron, though. I mean, I really took to it. I toted that little book with me all the time, in my saddlebags. I liked them lines that went: Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.

  That man, he knew what he was talkin’ about, seems to me.

  I mentioned Lord Byron to Pepper, and she seemed right impressed; said she had a book by some fellow name of Tennyson—another Lord—and said she’d loan it to me. When I come back to the office one afternoon after my roamin’ around, there it was, on my desk.

  She had underlined a passage, with pretty blue ink, and dated it. The date was the first day we’d seen one another. The line went: Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love.

  I was sure glad none of the deputies was in the office when I read that. I turned as red as the lantern on a whorehouse door.

  The peacefulness ended that mornin’ I stepped out of the office and tasted the summer. A Rockinghorse puncher come foggin’ up the street and slid to a halt in front of me, standin’ on the boardwalk.

  “Rustlers hit us last night, Sheriff. Took about a hundred head, mostly young stuff. Mister Mills asked if you’d come out quick.”

  He wheeled and was gone ’fore I could say anything to him.

  I left Rusty in charge and took De Graff with me. We headed north of town, the towering mountains pullin’ us along, always in sight, lonely and far-off. We crossed the Arrow range and, about halfway through, come up on Miss Maggie and Miss Jean.

  We howdied and shook—just like men—and I explained what all I knew. Miss Jean, she spat on the ground and snorted, real unladylike.

  “Sure, Sheriff. Sure they had rustlers. Fifth, sixty gunhands roaming around the spread, with that many more punchers, and rustlers are gonna run off some cattle? I don’t think you believe that any more than I do.”

  That thought had occurred to me, and I said as much. “But I still got to check it out. I have me a hunch the tracks of the missin’ cattle—if there is any missin’ cattle—is gonna lead straight to a small rancher’s spread.”

  “Maybe you ain’t as dumb as you look,” Miss Maggie said. “I been hopin’ and prayin’ that something like this wouldn’t happen. But I guess the Good Lord wasn’t listenin’ to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Way I figure it, you can bet that puncher come into town after you, losing after the so-called rustlers was found and shot, or hung. And if I’m wrong, I’ll kiss your horse’s . . .”

  De Graff, he like to have swallered his chew when she finished tellin’ what part of my horse she’d kiss. Critter, he looked plumb uncomfortable about the whole thing.

  I said my fare-thee-wells and we headed out towards the Rockinghorse spread. Lookin’ back over my shoulder, I seen them gals takin’ their horses toward home. I had me a hunch they was gonna gather up some of their boys and meet us later.

  De Graff, he agreed. “Them women embarrass me,” he added.

  “Take a powerful strong man to handle either one of them ladies.”

  “Several around here has tried. Come away lookin’ like they’d been wrestlin’ bear all night and facin’ a breakfast or armadiller meat. One of ’em wandered around for days, mumblin’ to hisself. I heard he joined the monkhood and swore off sex forever and always.”

  Laughing, I asked, “Men still come a-courtin’ the gals?”

  “Oh, yeah! Them that either crave excitement or ain’t got good sense. They fine handsome-lookin’ wimmin, still. Miss Jean got to battin’ her eyes at me ’bout three years back. I went to Canada for the summer.”

  “You’re kiddin’!”

  “No, I ain’t neither!”

  I got to laughin’ at the sorrowful expression on De Graff’s face.

  I stopped laughin’ when we come up on the sight. There was a whole bunch of Rockinghorse riders gathered around a tree. Two bodies were hangin’ from a limb, an older man and a young man, scarcely more than a boy. Another young man was layin’ on the ground, all shot to hell and gone, part of his face blowed away.

  Joe Coyle, the gunslick, was lookin’ at me.

  “Mornin’, Sheriff. We found the rustlers. Them’s the cattle bunched up over yonder.” He pointed.

  “Yeah.” Pitiful thing was, I couldn’t do a thing about it. Horse thieves and cattle rustlers was usually hung on the spot. That’s just the way it was.

  The two hung men hadn’t had their necks broke proper, they’d strangled to death danglin’. Their faces was all swole up, tongues stickin’ out, all purple-lookin’.

  “You’ found ’em with the cattle?” I had to ask it, all the while knowin’, or at least suspectin’, that the man, and what looked to be his sons, had been set up for a hangin’ and shootin’ .

  “Why, sure, Sheriff!” Tim Marks said. “We
just wouldn’t snatch up some innocent person and hang ’em!” He done his best to look insulted.

  It just didn’t come off. I knew that Tim Marks had sold his sister to white slavers workin’ out of San Francisco some years back. Tim Marks was as sorry as a man could get.

  I eyeballed him. “Seen your sister lately, Tim?”

  He sulled up like a ’possum caught in lantern light and shut his mouth.

  “Who’s the dead people?” I asked De Graff.

  “Father and his sons. Name’s Farris. He run a small ranch that borders on the Rockinghorse range. Over yonderways.” He pointed.

  I had taken to carryin’ a small notepad in my saddlebags, so I got it out and, with the stub of a pencil, wrote down all the so-called facts of the case. It took me awhile, writin’ not bein’ all that easy. “Cut the bodies down and tie ’em acrost their saddles,” I told Coyle. “We’ll take ’em into town.”

  Them gunhands, they didn’t like that idea, so the regular punchers for Rockinghorse did it. Them drawin’ gunslick wages, they just sat back and watched it all.

  ’Bout that time Miss Maggie and Miss Jean come ridin’ up, with a half dozen of their hands with them, all of ’em ready for a fight.

  Miss Jean looked at the bodies draped over and tied to the saddles. She shook her head in disgust. “Farris,” she said to no one in particular. Then she looked at me. “Just like I told you it would be, Sheriff.”

  Joe Coyle glared at the woman, “What the hell is that supposed to mean, lady?”

  One of the Arrow hands started to step down. She waved him back. “Easy, Jesse. I can stomp my own snakes.” She looked at Joe. “What it means, gunhand, is this: Me and Maggie told Sheriff Cotton that this is what he’d find when he got out here. And that you and your scummy crew probably set the whole damned thing up, bein’ the lowdown, yellow-livered cowards that you are.”

  Joe, he turned as red as the sun goin’ down. First time I ever head of Coyle not knowin’ which way to jump. I mean, he couldn’t challenge a woman to step down and jerk iron . . . that was damn near unheard of.