Blood Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  The little man was workin’ up to a full head of steam. I wanted to cut him off ’fore he topped the grade. “Mister Pritcher, are you any kin to the Reverend Sam Dolittle?”

  “What? Why, no. Why do you ask, Sheriff?”

  “Just curious. Listen, can you print something up for me?”

  “Certainly.”

  I handed him the paper I’d printed the words on and he read it quick. “Will I be allowed to correct the spelling. Sheriff?”

  “Oh, sure. And word it different if you want to. I just want folks to be able to understand it.”

  “Oh, they’ll understand, all right. It’s free of charge, Sheriff.” He smiled. “I want to see the faces of the Circle L and the Rockinghorse hoodlums when they read this.”

  “For a fact, they ain’t none of them gonna be too happy about it.”

  “Did you OK this with the town council?”

  “Sure did. I just left George Waller’s place of business.”

  “That’s all I needed. The posters will be ready in two days.”

  “Thank you.”

  Me, I went courtin’ Miss Pepper. I figured, and figured right, that when I started havin’ them notices tacked up all over the big valley, I was gonna be plenty busy.

  NOTICE—THESE RULES GO INTO EFFECT RIGHT NOW

  NO SHOOTING OFF GUNS IN THE TOWN OF

  DOUBTFUL.

  NO GALLOPING HORSES IN TOWN.

  NO HORSE RACING IN TOWN.

  REIN YOUR HORSE IN FAVOR OF PEOPLE

  WALKING IN THE STREET.

  VIOLATORS WILL BE JAILED AND FINED.

  Me and Rusty and De Graff and Burtell, we spent one whole afternoon tackin’ up them notices all over the valley. The boys didn’t mind it none, anything they could do from the hurricane deck of a horse was all right with them.

  Then we sat back and waiting for the action to get started.

  It was just after breakfast, and we was sittin’ in front of the office when Rusty poked me in the ribs. “Look who’s gonna be the first ones to test the new rules, Sheriff.” He pointed up the street.

  A.J. Junior and two hands from the ranch was just comin’ into view, turnin’ their horses onto the main street of town.

  “You reckon they’ve seen the signs?” De Graff asked.

  “They’ve seen ’em. They ain’t blind. We plastered them signs all over the valley. But them two with Junior?” I couldn’t make neither of them out. Only way I recognized Junior was his horse.

  “I don’t know ’em,” Burtell said, squintin’ his eyes. “But I can tell from this distance that they’re hardcases.”

  As they come closer, I silently agreed with Burtell. ’Cause I knowed both of them ol’ boys. The gunhand ridin’ the dun was Ike Burdette. The other was Dave Tunsall. Both of them Texas gunfighters; and both of ’em mean as snakes.

  I shifted my chew and spat into the street. Then I informed the boys who they was.

  Burtell, he had just finished rollin’ him a smoke and lickin’ it closed. He lit up just as Rusty said, “I heard of ’em both. But I can’t believe just the two of them are here to start something.”

  I shook my head, not takin’ my eyes off the three riders. “I don’t think so either. I think they’re in town to test the waaters.”

  We sat on the chairs and benches in front of the office and watched as Junior and his escort rode slowly by.

  “Mornin, Junior!” I called out cheerfully. “Nice day, ain’t it?

  Junior, he give me a look that silently told me where I could stick my right friendly salutations. That’d probably be uncomfortable, too.

  “Mornin’, Dave, Ike!” I called.

  Them Texas gunfighters, they knew me, but they looked at me and kept on ridin’. Plumb unfriendly of them.

  “Surly bunch of bastards!” De Graff said.

  “Hope y’all have a nice day in town!” I called. “And behave yourselves, too,” I added, pushin’ just a little bit.

  None of the three paid much attention to my words. Just kept on ridin’ and turned and reined in at the hitchrail in front of the Wolf’s Den. They disappeared into the batwings.

  “Do we amble on over there with ’em?” Rusty asked.

  “Nope. I ain’t gonna push no more as long as they behave themselves. Time’s gonna come for shootin’ soon enough.

  “Well, right yonder is young Hugh Mills,” Burrell said, noddin’ his head towards the other end of the long main street.

  I looked. I’d seen Young Hugh a time or two in town. He was a surly-lookin’, pouty-mouthed, always-sulled-up young man. But my, my, he had him two of the fanciest short guns I ever did see. Wore ’em low and tied down. And I’d heard that he could use them, too.

  If I was to work at it real hard, and I’d have to work at it, ’cause I never was one to envy much on other folk’s possessions, I could surely covet them guns of Young Hugh’s. They was a matched set of Peacemaker .45’s, engraved and ivory-handled and restin’ in embossed leather holsters. Lordy, but they was some fine!

  That set would cost the average cowpoke a good three months’ wages, or more.

  “I heard he can use them guns,” I said.

  “Yes, he can,” De Graff answered me. “He’s uncommon quick. And just like Junior, he’s spoiled, uppity, and about half nuts. Last year, Hugh rode down a young Mex boy who was out tendin’ sheep. Just rode him down and trampled him to death. He’s a bad one, Sheriff. And unpredictable.”

  “No charges brung agin him for the death of that boy?”

  “Sure. But Judge Barbeau cut him loose,” Rusty told me. “Hugh told the judge that he lost control of his horse. It was an accident.”

  “Somebody ought to shoot that judge,” Burtell spoke aloud everybody’s feelin’s. He looked at the two men with Hugh. “Anybody know them two with him?”

  “The one on the right is called Bitter Creek,” I said. “The other one is known as Tulsa Jack. I think his real name is Wolcott. They’re both quick with a gun.”

  And I silently wondered how many more gunslingers was gonna show up in the big valley. Place was beginnin’ to look like a convention spot for killers.

  I cut my eyes as George Waller come rushin’ up the boardwalk. He was all in a sweat for this early in the day. He was movin’ like a man with a powerful message to deliver.

  “Sheriff!” he panted. “Injun Tom Johnson checked into the hotel late last night. The situation is just simply getting out of hand.”

  “Yeah,” I sat still, mentally digestin’ the news of the gunfighter called Injun Tom. He got his name ’cause he preferred squaws over white women. Rumor had it that Injun Tom had fathered a whole tribe of younguns over the years; and I didn’t doubt it none. Injun Tom was a bad one, too . . . just bad through and through. And ugly! Lordy, Tom was ugly. It was said he was so ugly his momma had to tie a piece of salt meat around his neck to attract flies.

  Gettin’ to my feet, I said, “You boys mind the store. Me and Rusty’s gonna move around some.”

  Walkin’ up the boardwalk, Rusty said, “Reckon when Billy the Kid is gonna show up? Damn near ever’body that is somebody with a short gun is already done arrived.” He shook his head. “And the worst of ’em ain’t made it yet.”

  I knew who he was talkin’ about. Jack Crow. I wasn’t lookin’ forward to his arrival.

  “I hear that Billy’s gone plumb bad now that Tunstall and McSween’s dead.”

  “So I heard. He’s gone to stealin’ horses and rustlin’ cattle. Somebody’ll get him.”

  “Somebody always does. There’s always somebody just a tad better with a gun, or just plain lucky.”

  “I heard his friend Pat Garrett is now sayin’ that Billy’s no good.”

  “He ought to know, I reckon. I seen Pat a couple of times when I was down south on a cattle buy. I hear he’s gonna run for Sheriff of Lincoln County.”

  “Do tell? I thought he was a lawman all along.”

  “Naw. Last time I seen him he was tendin’ bar a
t Beaver Smith’s saloon at Fort Sumner.”

  “Well, I’ll just be damned! Stories do get started, don’t they? Next you gonna tell me that Billy wasn’t raised up by the Apaches.”

  “Where’d you hear that? Billy was born in New York. He didn’t come west ’til he was about thirteen. Didn’t kill his first man ’til a couple of years ago. ’77, I think it was.”

  “Ain’t that something? I read in one of them penny-dreadful books that he was toted off by ’Paches and raised up with ’em.”

  “I read where I rode with the James Gang, too, Rusty. But I ain’t never set my eyes on Jesse or Frank. And ain’t never been to Missouri, neither.”

  “I read that same book,” Rusty said solemnly. “That’s what I was thinkin’ about that day I braced you over at the saloon. Sheriff, you got one hell of a reputation.”

  I didn’t reply to that, for my eyes had found yet another hardcase leanin’ up agin’ the front of the Wolf’s Den. “See that ol’ boy over yonder, Rusty?”

  “The stranger by the batwings?”

  “Yeah. That’s Pete Clanton, the Montana gunhand. And wherever Pete goes, you can bet Bob Clay ain’t very far away. Them two is close; first cousins, I think.” I give out with a long sigh.

  Place sure was fillin’ up in a hurry . . . with the wrong kind of people.

  “What’s the matter with you? ’Sides bein’ in love, that is?” Rusty grinned. “And havin’ Miss Maggie and Miss Jean with the hots for your body.”

  I didn’t deny the love bit. But I ignored that last bit. “’Way my luck’s been runnin’ here of late, the third member of that nasty little group will probably be hangin’ around close by, too. If so, I gotta arrest him.”

  “You know this third person?”

  “You’ve seen dodgers on him. His name is Al Long.”

  Rusty whistled softly. “’Deed I have, Sheriff. He’s ’posed to be snake-quick.”

  “Yes, he is. And there he is.”

  Rusty followed the direction of my eyes. “The man wearin’ the buckskin shirt?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Who’s the man standin’ beside him?”

  “All I know is Nimrod. Far as I know, he ain’t wanted for nothin’. That anybody can prove, that is.”

  “Nimrod? Didn’t he kill that rancher over in California?”

  “Was accused of it, so I heard. But it was a fair fight, so-called. The rancher just wasn’t no gunhand, that’s all.”

  “How you gonna handle it, Sheriff?”

  “Only one way I know to handle it. Get the women and kids off the boardwalks, Rusty. There’s gonna be a shootin’. I’ll wait ’til you get things clear ’fore I make my move.”

  Boardin’ House Belle come tippin’ up the boardwalk and batted her eyes at me, then stepped into a store. As if I didn’t have enough on my mind without her makin’ eyes at me.

  Now, I wasn’t gonna brace Al Long purely out of civic responsibility. . . although that did have something to do with it. The bottom line was that three-thousand-dollar reward on Al’s head. And I aimed to use that money to stock my ranch.

  Rusty, he was movin’ quiet-like but swift up and down the boardwalks, clearin’ the area of folks. Al, he still had his back to me, jawin’ with some other hardcases. I didn’t want no innocent people to get hit by stray bullets, and that happened a hell of a lot more times than people care to talk about.

  I looked up at the second story of the Wolf’s Den. A couple of soiled doves waved at me. I motioned them to get down and they done it.

  Must have been a slow night for them gals to be up and about this early in the mornin’.

  Just as I was about to step out into the street and holler for Al to give it up or drag iron, the fanciest hearse I ever did see come a-rollin’ into town. It was deep polished black with glass sides—covered now to prevent breakage durin’ transport—and lots of silver on it. Then I ’membered that Truby, he told me he had ordered one from a funeral parlor down south of us. The undertakers who’d sold it was named Harder and Stiff. That was an odd enough name for undertakers; but down in Cochise County, Arizona Territory, there was a funeral parlor run by two men called Ritter & Ream.

  And then I got to thinkin’. Who was gonna be the first to ride in that fancy death-wagon . . . me, or Al Long?

  But you can’t dwell on stuff like that for very long . . . gets to be depressin’.

  I checked the street, both sides, up and down, and it was clear. Steppin’ off the boardwalk, I called out.

  “Al Long!”

  Al, he spun around, facin’ me, his hands clawed, over his gun butts. He peered hard at me. “Cotton? Is that you, kid?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, Al.”

  “I was told you was up in Montana.”

  “I was. But now I’m here. Sheriff of Puma County. You’re under arrest, Al. Stagecoach robbin’, bank robbin’, train robbin’, and murder. Give it up, Al.”

  He laughed at me. “And face a rope? That ain’t no choice at all, Cotton. ’Sides, I don’t think you’re as good as your reputation.”

  “One way to find out, Al.”

  “Damn sure is, kid!” Then he grabbed for iron.

  I was faster. But as he jerked iron, he ducked to one side and my slug whined off a horse trough. His bullet tore the hat right off my head. I stepped back and held off shootin’ for fear I’d hit some onlooker standin’ in a store a-gawkin’. Long, he popped up in an alleyway and fired just as I jumped to my left. His slug thudded into the building behind where I’d been standin’.

  Al, he fired again, and again he missed, his slug bustin’ out a window of the store.

  I heard Boardin’ House Belle give out a whoop that would put an Apache to shame and then she hit the floor. I could feel the vibration clear out in the street. I hoped to hell she wasn’t dead. It’d take two teams of carpenters a full day to build a box big enough to hold her.

  Not to mention a dozen hernias on the men havin’ to tote it with her in it.

  The lead really started flyin’ and whinin’ around my head as Al opened up with both pistols. But the street was wide and Al, while bein’ fast, wasn’t no real good pistol shooter at long range. Regardless, I done some rollin’ and come up behind a fire barrel full of water. Gettin’ to one knee, I cocked back and let it bark. One slug hit Al in the chest and the second one caught him in the shoulder. He was hard hit, but a long ways from bein’ out of it.

  Al, he staggered up to his feet and reached around behind him. I knowed that trick of his; he carried a third gun stuck down behind his belt, in the small of his back, under his buckskin shirt.

  “You son of a bitch!” he cussed me, blood leakin’ out of his mouth. “You’ve killed me. But you ain’t gonna be hoss enough to stop my brothers.”

  “Drop your gun, Al.”

  “Hell with you!”

  I waited until his pistol was in plain sight and he’d jacked the hammer back, then I shot him right between the eyes. He just sat down on the edge of the boardwalk, his head slumped between his legs, the pistol slippin’ from dead fingers. He sat there, dead as a hammer.

  Rusty, he come runnin’ up just as Burtell and De Graff come up from the other side.

  “Get the photo-grapher,” I told Burtell. “I want pitchers to show the U.S. Marshals.”

  Injun Tom had stepped out of the hotel, standin’ watchin’. Tunsall and Burdette and Bitter Creek and Tulsa had come out of the saloon to see the action. Injun Tom, he smiled—even that didn’t do nothin’ to improve his looks—and held out his hands, palms up, showin’ me he wasn’t takin’ no part in nothin’. Yet.

  I nodded at him and turned to face the men on the boardwalk in front of the Wolf’s Den, across the street. They wasn’t makin’ no moves to join in, but I’m a right suspicious man at times.

  “Clear the street or I’ll have to figure you’re all partners of Al Long!” I called out. “And we’ll have us a slaughter right here and now.”

  De Graff and Rusty w
as carryin’ Henry rifles and they levered them. Them gunhands turned and walked back into the saloon.

  Oh, they wasn’t afraid. It just wasn’t the right time.

  A big crowd started gatherin’ around. Truby, at the direction of the picture-takin’ man from the studio, stuck a board behind Al Long to prop him up. Truby used a piece of string to tie Al’s head back, then plopped his hat back on his head. The hat hid the twine, but left the hole in Al’s head showin’, the blood leakin’ out.

  The photo man, name of Langford, set up all his fancy equipment and began poppin’ and puffin’ up smoke takin’ pictures of Al. ’Bout that time Doc Harrison come up. He waited until Langford was done, then he inspected the body, officially proclaimin’ Al was dead.

  I duly noted the time in my little notebook and had the Doc sign it and date it, all legal-like and proper.

  Leo Silverman, he come out of his store, wipin’ his hands on his apron. “You can show him off in my window, Martin,” he told the undertaker. Leo leaned over and sniffed at Al. “Until he starts turnin’ ripe, that is.”

  Truby looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders. “Suits me.” But I could tell the Doc, he didn’t like the idea at all.

  But that’s the way it was back in the wild and woolly days. Most folks wanted to take a glance or two at dead outlaws. The ladies would go “oohh” and “aahh” and get all flustered and act like it offended ’em—with everybody knowin’ it didn’t. And the men would puff up and say something like, “He got what he deserved.” There just wasn’t a whole hell of a lot in the way of entertainment in small western towns.

  I went through Al’s pockets and found enough to bury him decent—even if, when Al was alive, he wasn’t decent. I give the money to Truby and he give me a receipt for it.

  I took ever’thing else of Al’s, stickin’ his personal belongings in a bag that I’d give to the U.S. Marshals. Then I sent Burtell ridin’ south to the telegraph office to wire the Marshals.

  Boardin’ House Belle, she came waddlin’ out of the store and batted her eyes at me a time or two. “What a brave man you are, Sheriff,” she gushed. “So . . . manly!”

  Then she went trippin’ off up the boardwalk.