Blood Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  I danced around some and that seemed to make the bigger man mad as hell. “Vight, you coward!” he yelled at me.

  “What’s the matter, lard-butt? You gettin’ tired already? I thought you was a professional somethin’ or the other.”

  He squalled something in his native tongue and then damned if he didn’t charge me. I didn’t have time to get out of his way. When he run into me, he knocked me sprawlin’ on the sawdust floor. But he’d been movin’ so fast he couldn’t check his forward speed. He stepped on me and I grabbed hold of one ankle and jerked hard.

  He stumbled and then crashed into the back wall and just kept goin’, right straight through the thin-cut pine. I heard him flounderin’ around the storeroom, trippin’ over boxes and barrels and cussin’ in two languages. Jumpin’ up, I ran into the dark room, runnin’ full speed.

  Damned if I didn’t run into Haufman.

  The force of my charge knocked the big man into the back door and the door went with him into the alley, crashin’ out into the mud and stale beer, with me right behind the German.

  Just as he was gettin’ to his knees, I hit him four times, left and right, to the jaw, both sides. He went down in a bubble of spit and blood. I kicked him in the belly and he hollered and rolled until he come up on his feet.

  I slipped in the beer and stumbled, almost fallin’ down.

  Then we went at it, standin’ toe to toe and sluggin’ it out. But I could taste the sweetness of victory just by lookin’ into Haufman’s eyes; they were beginnin’ to glaze over. One of his ears was hangin’ by a piece of skin, his lips was busted and bleedin’, and his nose was smashed flat. His face was a mask of blood.

  But Haufman wasn’t through, not quite yet.

  He sucker punched me and I went down on my back, rollin’ away just in time to miss being crushed as he tried to drop both knees on me. Scramblin’, I come up and kicked him right square in his big butt with the toe of my boot.

  He hollered and spun around in the mud, just like a big ugly bug, his feet kickin’ out, knockin’ my legs out from under me. He was on top of me in a flash, his fingers diggin’ at my eyes.

  I managed to grab hold of one thumb and bend it back until it busted with a sickening sound. Haufman screamed in pain and I kicked him off me. This time I didn’t let up until his face was damn near beyond recognition, it was so swollen and bloody. Finally, after I rared back and busted him square on the side of his jaw, Haufman just toppled over like a dead tree and lay still in the churned-up mud of the alley.

  I hadn’t been conscious of it, but a big crowd had gathered at both ends of the alley, standin’ and watchin’. Strippin’ off my gloves, I walked over to a water barrel and doused my face good with the cold water and then soaked my hands for a minute or two.

  The photo-grapher, he come runnin’ up the alleyway, totin’ all his equipment, with Pritcher right with him. Langford begun poppin’ pictures of Haufman, all bloody and muddy and still out of it.

  “What happened here, Sheriff?” Pritcher asked.

  “He tried to kill me yesterday; missed, shot my horse from ambush. I cornered him in the Wolf’s Den and ordered him out of town. He didn’t want to leave so I convinced him it would be best if he did.”

  Pritcher, he was scribblin’ in a little notepad.

  “Somebody get a rope and hang the bastard!” a man spoke out of the crowd.

  “Be no un-legal hangin’ in this town!” I told the crowd, and the man, he didn’t have nothin’ else to say about it. “We’re not gonna lower ourselves to the level of the Circle L and the Rockinghorse, folks.”

  “Good, Sheriff. Very good. I’m proud of you,” Pritcher said. “We must keep law and order to the forefront.”

  I was flexin’ my hands, movin’ my fingers open and shut. I didn’t want them to stiffen up on me and not be able to hold a gun.

  Truby, he come runnin’ up the alleyway. He seemed right disappointed that Haufman wasn’t dead. But he checked him twice just to be sure.

  Burtell, Rusty, and De Graff had come up. “Get a bucket of water,” I told Burtell, “and dump it on Haufman; get him on his feet. Rusty, get his horse from the stable and bring it around here. But keep his rifle. I want it for evidence.” I hadn’t told nobody, but when I closer inspected that brass from Haufman’s .44-40. I seen where the firin’ pin had wore some and was strikin’ just off to the right.

  Burtell, he dumped a bucket of water on Haufman and the German was sittin’ in the beery mud, moanin’ and cussin’ and holdin’ his head.

  Rusty handed me the rifle and I waved the crowd back, firin’ one round into the dirt. Ejectin’ the brass, I inspected it; they matched up perfect, the pin strikin’ just to the right a tad, but enough on the mark to fire the round.

  I looked at Haufman. “You got a choice, Haufman. You can ride on out, or I’ll hold you and try you for attempted murder. Make up your mind.”

  “I shall represent this poor unfortunate man!” Lawyer Stokes busted through the crowd, all full of hisself.

  “You shut your mouth,” I warned him. “And keep it shut.”

  He shut up.

  “I vill ride,” Haufman glared at me through his swollen, piggy eyes. “But I shall not forget.”

  “You don’t have to leave!” Stokes hollered. “The sheriff cannot order you out of town.”

  I eyeballed Stokes. “You wanna ride out with him, bigmouth?”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” the lawyer stuck out his chest and his chin.

  “You wanna bet?”

  Stokes just didn’t have it in him to crowd me no more. He stood his ground for a few more seconds and then dropped his eyes.

  Langford took a picture of me and Stokes, standin’ nose to nose.

  Pritcher was writin’ fast in the little notebook.

  “I’ll keep your rifle, Haufman.”

  He cussed me in German.

  Grinnin’ at him, I told Rusty, “Escort him to the county line. South!”

  Chapter 12

  It was quiet in the valley for several days; or at least as far as I knew it was all quiet. If anything violent or underhanded went down, it wasn’t reported to the sheriff’s office. Then, on the morning of the fourth day after I’d whipped Haufman and ordered him to ride, A.J. and Matt come ridin’ into town, accompanied by a gang of gunslicks. Big Mike and Kilby Jones were with them. They didn’t even look my way as they rode past the office.

  They rode straight to Lawyer Stokes’s office and stayed all huddled up in there for half an hour or so, then they all went to see George Waller.

  After a time, they all come troopin’ out, not lookin’ too happy about things. They met with half a dozen other people, all members of the town council. I had me a pretty good idea what was happenin’.

  Rusty and Burtell was out in the country, just keepin’ an eye on things, and me and De Graff sat in front of the office and watched the street. I figured George would be down to see me shortly, and sure enough, it wasn’t no time ’fore he come hustlin’ down the boardwalk, his face all shiny with sweat. Looked like he had him a powerful load on his mind.

  “What’s up, George?”

  “Pressure, Sheriff, and plenty of it. But by God, the town council stood firm. I’m plenty proud of them all.”

  “Lawrence and Mills want you all to fire me, George?”

  “Precisely, Sheriff.”

  I nodded my head. “And if you don’t, they’ll stop tradin’ in town, right, George?”

  He eyeball me suspicious-like. “Was you listenin’ at a knothole, Sheriff?”

  “Nope. But I was just wonderin’ when they’d pull something like this. Now that you’ve all refused, what’s their next move?”

  George pulled out a bandana and mopped his face dry. “Well, it’s like this, Sheriff.... They didn’t come right out and say they wasn’t gonna trade in town no more. But they sure come right up to the line before backin’ off away from it.”

  I thought they were bluffin’. But I didn�
��t tell George that. The next town, by wagon, was a full day’s ride . . . maybe longer. And when the women at those ranches wanted something, like a dress or a sack of flour, they wouldn’t put up very long with no two or three days, ’fore they got it. “And . . . ?”

  “Leo Silverman told Matt Mills to go right straight to hell. Alex White, man who owns the Dirty Dog, he told A.J. where to stick his suggestions. And Belle puffed right up and said some words I didn’t even think she knew! We’re all behind you, Sheriff. All of us.”

  Maybe. Maybe for now. But I wondered about that. Talk is easy, but what if it wasn’t no bluff? When the money stopped comin’ in, would they all still feel the same way? I pondered on that some. Yes, I thought they would stick.

  I sure hoped so.

  “The small ranchers and the nesters gonna be enough to keep you all goin’, George?”

  “Yes.” He smiled slowly. “Sheriff, this is something that we all have discussed at length, many times before. I mean, the businessmen of Doubtful. Personally, I think it’s a bluff. But if it isn’t, well, it’ll hurt some, sure, but I think we’ll all survive it. All they’ll be doing, in the long run, is hurting themselves.”

  I nodded my head, for I was only payin’ half attention to his words, my eyes not leaving the little man who was standing under the awning of the Wolf’s Den saloon. Little Jack Bagwell. He sure seemed interested in something that was goin’ on in the alleyway that housed Juan’s Cantina.

  I mentioned it to De Graff and told him to amble down thataway and see what was goin’ on, if anything at all.

  George, he stopped talkin’ and looked. “What’s wrong, Sheriff?”

  “I don’t know, George. But Little Jack is a cold-blooded killer. He likes to kill. And he ain’t standin’ out in the sun to get hisself no early summer’s tan.”

  We watched in silence as De Graff come out of the alley and walked across the street to talk with Little Jack. De Graff, he come walkin’ back toward the office, walkin’ kinda quick for a cowboy. Cowboys, most of ’em ain’t real taken with footwalkin’ .

  “What’s up, De Graff?”

  “Damn farmer over in Juan’s. He says Jack claims he insulted him yesterday. He admitted he said some things to him. Little Jack told him to pack iron and they’d have at it in town today. They’re gonna meet at noon.”

  “Well, damn!” I said. I sighed, ’cause there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Settlin’ personal grudges with guns was the way it was, it was legal, for if a man packed iron, that meant he was ready and willin’ to use it. Either that, or back down. I looked up at George. He knew it, too.

  “Who’s the farmer?” George asked.

  “Some young feller name of Sonny Hickman. I don’t know him.”

  “I do.” George shook his head. “I kinda been expectin’ something like this. Sonny is a young hothead who thinks he’s a tough one. Come out here about three years ago from Indiana.”

  “Married?” I asked.

  “Yes. Nice lady, too. I think they have two kids. Maybe more, now.”

  Another widder woman. ’Cause if this clodhopper stood up to Little Jack, he was shore gonna get killed. “What kind of iron is he packin’, De Graff?”

  “Converted .44, looks like.”

  Meaning that it had been changed to fire metallic cartridges. Gettin’ to my feet, I asked. “What time is it, George?”

  George clicked open his timepiece. I still hadn’t bought me no watch. “Eleven-thirty, Sheriff.”

  “Let’s clear the streets, De Graff. I’m gonna try to talk to Little Jack, but sure as hell, he was ordered out on the prod.”

  “I’ll take my block, Sheriff,” George volunteered. “Perhaps you can stop it.”

  “Don’t count on that.”

  I took one side and De Graff handled the other. It took us about ten minutes. Folks cleared right off the boardwalk, but they didn’t go far. They all lined up in the stores, movin’ real quick to get a good place to view the fight. Then they’d all talk about how terrible it was. But they wouldn’t none of them miss it for nothin’.

  Finished, I looked up the street and damned if Pepper and her ma wasn’t pullin’ up in a buggy to the hitchrail to the dress shop—spelt Shoppee—still didn’t look right to me. I quick hustled over there and took ’em by the arms and led ’em inside.

  I was plumb shook to my boots when the screamin’ began. A young lady, amply endowed—and dressed only in her scanties—started whoopin’ and hollerin’. Like to have scared me half to death. I turned around and run smack into Martha. Pepper. She was laughin’ so hard she couldn’t hardly see, and even her ma was havin’ a hard time keepin’ a straight face.

  My face? Hell, it was red!

  I was back on the boardwalk faster than a cat can move. But it had been a right interestin’ sight to behold. Pretty young lady. Hell, it wasn’t my fault. She shouldn’t a been paradin’ around almost in her altogethers. ’Course, I reckon I should have knocked, it bein’ a dress shop. With two p’s and two e’s.

  But for now, I had more important things to worry about . . . mainly tryin’ to figure out how to keep a clodhopper from gettin’ killed.

  I wasn’t worried none about Little Jack.

  I walked to where Little Jack was standin’, leanin’ up against the outer wall of the saloon.

  He give me a disgusted look. “I reckon you’re gonna stick your nose in this, Sheriff.” It was not a question.

  “Nope. But I would like to know what brung all this on.”

  Little Jack cut his eyes at me. “That damn nester tole me to get my ugly horse off of his potato field.”

  “Called your horse ugly, did he?”

  “Damn shore did. And I ain’t gonna take that from nobody, sure as hell not from no damn tater and hog farmer.”

  Well, people have been killed for a lot less than that, and I knew it was true.

  “Little Jack, you mind terrible tellin’ me what the hell you and your horse was doin’ in the man’s potato patch?”

  “I ride wherever I damn well please to ride, Cotton.”

  “No, you don’t neither. Not in this county. Now you want me to buy into his hand, Jack, you just get up in my face with your smart mouth.”

  I hid a smile. It was kinda amusin’. For if Little Jack Bagwell was to get up in my face, he’d have to find him a chair to stand on.

  “Now, look here, Cotton. I got a right to defend my honor!”

  “That you do, I ain’t denyin’ that. But it wasn’t your honor, it was your horse’s!”

  “That don’t make no difference.”

  “I don’t need nobody to fight my battles for me!” the voice come from our left. Me and Jack both turned around and looked.

  It was a hayseed, all right. From his clodhopper shoes to his overalls to his beat-up, floppy-brimmed hat.

  But that gun in that raggedy holster on his hip made him equal to any man. And he had picked up the challenge, so it was his fight.

  But I had to say it. “Back off, mister. Go on back home to your wife and kids. You ain’t gonna lose no face by not fightin’ Little Jack. Not in the eyes of them that matter, leastways.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “You said your piece, Sheriff,” Little Jack told me. “Now leave us be.”

  I didn’t wanna put no hex on the farmer, so I didn’t ask what he wanted on his marker. I just stepped back and pushed through the batwings of the Wolf’s Den. Big Mike and Kilby and A.J. and Matt was all sittin’ at a window table. I stood in the batwings and looked at them.

  “You going to stop them, Sheriff?” Matt asked me.

  “No, sir. It’s a fair fight . . . at least the way it’s writ now it is. Course, we all know it ain’t. But that ain’t up to me.”

  Matt stared at me. When he agin spoke, his voice was low-pitched. “You’re a strange man, Sheriff. I’m having a difficult time understanding your motives.”

  “There ain’t that much to figure, Mister Mills. I j
ust believe in doin’ what I think is right, that’s all. Right, bein’ what the majority believes. Ain’t that what this country is all about?”

  The man give out with a long sigh. I was havin’ some difficulty in figurin’ him out, too. Ever’time I’d get an opinion fixed in my mind about him, I’d have to change it. He acted like that deep in his heart, he wanted to do right. But I didn’t have no such trouble with A.J. He was just a plain ol’ re-volvin’ son of a bitch. That meant that no matter which-a-way he decided to turn, he was still a son of a bitch!

  I give all my attention to the two men now in the center of the street, about forty feet apart. Little Jack was maybe five feet, three inches tall, and that might be pushin’ it, but he was snake-fast with a short gun. I knowed how it was he come to be a gunfighter, and it wasn’t no pretty story. But then, neither was it all his fault.

  Him bein’ so little and all, he took some terrible beatin’s and some awful ribbin’ as a youngster. It was said that he went a little nuts from it, and I don’t doubt it none. Folks can be uncommon cruel, and they don’t really have to try that hard neither. Finally, so the story goes, one day Little Jack just took all of it that he could stand and killed a young man with a gun. After that, he had to flee from his Arkansas home. But he might have turned out bad anyways. For after that, he took to killin’ like a beaver takes to buildin’ a dam. He stepped over the line and got to where he liked to kill.

  “I must offer my congratulations on your engagement, Sheriff,” Matt spoke up.

  He was a strange one, that Matt Mills. Without takin’ my eyes from the life-and-death play out in the dusty, hot street, I said, “Thank you, sir. I consider myself to be a lucky man.”

  “You ain’t married yet,” Big Mike said, a sour note in his voice.

  I cut my eyes to look at him. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” My own tone was harsher than I intended it to be. I just flat didn’t like this big ox.

  But he wouldn’t reply. Just smiled kinda ugly-like at me.

  Cuttin’ my eyes back to the street, I knew the draw was only seconds away. Little Jack was laughin’ at the Indiana man, and callin’ him some right ugly names, too.