Blood Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  “. . . Bringing in the . . .”

  “. . . damned nester trash!”

  “. . . sheaves!”

  Fistfights broke out, with men flailin’ away at each other. With a sigh, I jerked iron and put two shots in the air. The arena went as silent as a grave. “That’s it!” I shouted. “This meetin’ is hereby con-cluded and over and done with, too. I ain’t gonna have no killin’ this afternoon.” I pointed a finger first at Johnny Bull, who rode for the Circle L, and than at Fox Breckenridge, who rode for the Rockinghorse. “By the authority I got as sheriff of this county, I hereby say that both of you are deputies and you will help me clear this mess out of here.”

  “A deputy sheriff!” Fox squalled. “Cotton, you can’t do this to me. I got my reputation to think of!”

  “Stokes!” I hollered. “Give me a rulin’ on what I just done.”

  “He can do it,” the lawyer said, but it looked like it hurt his mouth to say it.

  Johnny Bull, he thought it was funny.

  “All right!” I yelled. “Break it up and clear on out of here, and I mean do it right damn now—move!”

  The crowd, they didn’t like it, but they commenced to move, anyways.

  “Christian soldiers!” Dolittle hollered from the rock stage. “All of you to the House of God.” He glared at me. “And you have no jurisdiction in a church, Sheriff.”

  “He’s right on that,” Stokes said.

  The crowd slowed down and turned around at that, mumblin’ amongst themselves. I raised my voice to be heard. “I don’t care where you go. But you bunch up and start any trouble, talkin’ about hangin’ and shootin’ and killin’ each other, and I’ll put your butts in the pokey. And if any of you think I won’t do it, you just, by God, try me.”

  “Just who in the hell do you think you are, anyways?” a man hollered from out of the crowd, probably standin’ behind his wife.

  “The sheriff of this county. And I was swore to uphold the laws and that’s what I’m doin’. I don’t give a damn what brand you ride for, or what piece of ground you might plow. . . . I’m gonna keep the peace. Now clear on out of here!”

  “Oh, doesn’t his voice just fairly ring with firm authority,” Boardin’ House Belle piped up. “I just love a strong man!” She looked at me. “I’m fearful of the mood of this crowd, Sheriff. Would you escort me home?”

  “I’ll have one of my deputies do it, ma’am.” I grinned at Fox.

  He called me a terrible name!

  It was full dark in the town and the Reverend Dolittle was still raisin’ sand and holy hell at his church. The church was jam-packed full with a whole bunch more out on the lawn. I had closed down all the saloons and warned them not to reopen until the next day. They didn’t like it, but they done it.

  At least for this night, I had kept the lid on the boilin’ pot.

  Fox Breckenridge had just galloped by, headin’ for the Rockinghorse. His hat was on backwards and he was barefoot, his shirttail hangin’ out. “You son of a bitch!” he hollered at me. “I’ll get you for this.”

  Looked like Belle had found her a new man.

  Probably wouldn’t be seein’ much of Fox in town no more. Which was all right with me.

  Johnny Bull had ridden out right after we got the arena cleared out. Being a deputy wasn’t nothin’ new to Johnny. He’d been a damn good deputy some years back.

  Burtell, he had taken him a stroll down to the church and had returned, takin’ a seat with me and the others in front of the office.

  “They got their army, all right, Sheriff,” Burtell reported. “And the Reverend Dolittle has been named a colonel of it. There’s a hundred men, all told. Pete Taylor, the rancher owns the Diamond T, he’s been named as a major. Two farmers, Bob Caldwell and Bill Noland, they been named captains. Sheriff, ain’t it agin’ the law to form up a private army?”

  “Durned if I know. I don’t think so. But Judge Barbeau will have to give us a rulin’ on that, I reckon.”

  From the church and the grounds around it, a couple of hundred voices was raised in song. “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

  I didn’t blame the people for gettin’ together and formin’ an army. But De Graff summed it all up for us.

  “There’s a bunch of people fixin’ to get killed in this valley,” he said gruffly. “Don’t them folks know all they’re doin’ is playin’ right into the hands of Lawrence and Mills? This is what they want. They’ll kill off a bunch and get the land for a song.”

  “No, they don’t know that,” I spoke up. “Them folks think God is on their side in this. And maybe He is, I don’t know. What I do know is that if there was three times their numbers, when they go up against all these seasoned gunhands, just a whole lot of ’em won’t be comin’ back to their wives and families.”

  “And there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it?” Rusty asked. “I mean, legal-like?”

  “Not a damn thing. Just follow along behind ’em and help tote off the dead.” I looked towards the east, as a growin’ glow on the horizon caught my eyes. I pointed it out to the boys.

  De Graff, he grunted. “Somebody’s house and barn is on fire. Ass-kickin’ time in the valley, boys.”

  At first light, me and Rusty was in the saddle, ridin’ toward where we’d seen the fire flames in the night.

  Within seconds of our spotting the fire, the church had emptied and folks had lit out of town, ridin’ lickety-split toward the fire, all of them knowin’ it would be burned down to the ground by the time any of them reached the scene.

  But fortunately for all concerned, especially the law, none of the Rockinghorse hands, Circle L hands, or gunfighters had remained in town—the saloons closed—so there hadn’t been any trouble.

  It was a farmer’s house and barn, naturally, and the smell of coal oil was still strong in the air when me and Rusty arrived, hours after the fire had burnt itself out.

  When we reined up, there was about forty-some-odd men gathered. Hog farmers, nesters, small ranchers, and the like. And they was all wearin’ the same colored blue shirt and dark britches; each one of them had a yellow bandana tied around their neck.

  Dolittle’s Irregulars.

  They was irregular, all right. It was the damndest-lookin’ bunch of men I’d ever seen. But they sure thought they was something, though.

  The Reverend Dolittle rode over to us, his big horse just a-prancin’. Colonel Dolittle was all dressed up in his Union Army uniform—minus the U.S. brass—and he was full of hisself. He was wearin’ two pistols in the army flap holsters. Looked like Remington .44s. The 1858 model. His men was all carryin’ different types of weapons. From shotguns to Sharps.

  “Sheriff!” Dolittle spoke, his voice hard and loud and damned irritatin’. “What do you intend to do about this outrage—if anything?” he added, and that made me plumb hot under the collar.

  “Well, sir . . . Colonel sir . . . first off, I want you and your so-called army to get the hell out of here and go back to tendin’ your own business. Let me and Rusty prowl around some and try to pick up some tracks.”

  “I personally found tracks, Sheriff. Also the cans containing the combustible fluids used to ignite the fire. The tracks lead east, toward the Circle L range. I have already dispatched several men in that direction.”

  “Have you now? Well, mayhaps you’d tell me on what authority you done that and what you intend to do if your dispatchers find the men.”

  “My authority is commanding officer of the Army of the Lord. And when we find the men responsible for this night-riding, we shall hang them, since it is quite obvious to me that you are incapable of enforcing the law in this valley.”

  First time in my life I ever hit a preacher. But I sure popped this one. I leaned over and knocked him slap out of the saddle. He landed on his butt and started hollerin’.

  He was stunned. He just didn’t believe anything like this was actually happenin’ to him. His mouth opened and closed about a half dozen times before anything
come out that even resembled understandable words.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll have your badge for this!” he finally yelled.

  “Fine, preacher. You just do that. And then after you’ve done it, try to find someone who’ll take the job and operate within the limits of the law. Think about that, you overbearin’ loudmouth.”

  I didn’t have no way of knowin’ it at the time, but I was only a few hours away from turnin’ in my badge, voluntarily.

  Dolittle’s so-called Army of the Lord had not moved. They could have easy taken me and Rusty out of action, but instead, they just stood still and watched as I knocked their Colonel out of the saddle and then stepped out of the saddle and jerked Dolittle to his feet and shoved him toward his big horse.

  “Now you get up there and ride, preacher. And if I ever need your help in law business, I’ll sure ask you.” Turnin’ to his army, I yelled, “Ride, damnit—right now!”

  They rode. With their blue shirts and matchin’ britches and yellow bandanas, they rode out. I didn’t know where they was goin’, and didn’t much care, as long as it was away from me.

  “Let’s start trackin’, Rusty. Maybe we can catch up with those men Dolittle sent out before anything bad happens to them.”

  We found the men Dolittle had dispatched, as he put it. Found them on the ground, mostly shot all to hell and gone. One Circle L puncher was on the ground, a big bloody hole in his chest. He was dead as a cold hammer. It looked to me like they had been waitin’ for the law to arrive.

  “Any of you boys wounded?” I asked.

  They shook their heads no.

  I pointed to a puncher. “You . . . ride into town for Truby. No need to get the Doc. Ride, cowboy, ride.”

  He took off and we dismounted. I inspected the bodies of the men. Lookin’ around, I asked what had happened.

  A puncher shoved his hat back on his head. “We was movin’ cattle to the lower graze.” He pointed. “Right there they is. These men come ridin’ up like they was God Almighty and said we was under arrest for nightridin’. Told us they was the En-forcers . . . something like that. I told that one,” he pointed, “to go right straight to hell. That’s when that one,” again, he pointed, “shot Jimmy out of the saddle with a shotgun; blowed him clean out of the saddle. We finished the fight and you can see how it come out. That’s it, Sheriff.”

  I believed him. These men were not gunfighters; they wasn’t tied down in no quick-draw rig. They was just workin’ cowboys—but they was tough. They’d fight for the brand if somebody come along and pushed them enough.

  ’Bout that time, Big Mike and Junior come ridin’ up. I could tell they was cocked back and lookin’ for a fight.

  But I wasn’t gonna give it to them, not just yet. So I pulled their fuses quick. “Just sit easy, boys. The fight’s over and I intend, by God, to see that it stays over . . . least for now.”

  Big Mike stuck his chin out at me. I got to admit, it was a temptin’ target. “You plannin’ on takin’ my crew to jail?”

  “Nope. These men,” I waved at the Enforcers, “had no business on your range. And they opened the dance. No charges agin’ your hands, the way I see it.”

  Big Mike, he stepped back and stared at me. Oh, he knew that I knew—without bein’ able to prove it—that some gunhands from his payroll had fired the man’s house and barn. But it wasn’t this bunch of cowboys who’d done it. And I wasn’t puttin’ no innocent man in jail just ’cause he rode for a couple of bastards.

  He stared at me for a time, then stepped up real close, pushin’ his face up to mine. “What the hell does it take to rile you, Pickens?”

  “Sometimes, not much, Mike. But on the other hand, I’m usually pretty easygoin’. Most of the time, that is.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah.” I raised my voice so’s all could hear. “You see, Mike, I figure there’s enough folks in the valley ridin’ around all primed and cocked for trouble, without you or me addin’ to it. Don’t you agree?”

  I smiled at him. He knew I had deliberately put him in a bind agin, right in front of his own men. There wasn’t nothin’ he could do except agree with me. But man, I could see the hate shinin’ at me through his hot eyes.

  When he spoke, his words was low, meant only for me. “We’ll tangle, you and me. Sometime, somewhere. I’m lookin’ forward to breaking every bone in your body, you jerk!”

  I stepped back and grinned, clasping him on the shoulder. “Why . . . Mike . . . thank you! That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me.”

  His men was all lookin’, wonderin’ what it was he’d just said. They couldn’t hear, so they had to guess at it. And Mike? Lord, but he was some kind of mad.

  Mike choked back a curse and slipped away from my friendly hand on his shoulder. His face was red as a beet as he swung back into the saddle. Without lookin’ back, him and Junior galloped off.

  I looked at the Circle L punchers. “You boys give me your names, and you can get back to shovin’ cows around.”

  Me and Rusty rode back to town with Truby and the bodies of Dolittle’s Irregular Enforcers. ’Bout twenty of Dolittle’s Army of the Lord was meetin’ with him at the church. Dolittle and his bunch come runnin’ out and makin’ all sorts of noises about what they was gonna do to them that killed the men.

  “You!” I pointed to Dolittle. “You ain’t gonna do nothin’ about it. I done warned you, preacher. Now don’t push me no more.”

  He mumbled something under his breath and wheeled around, stalkin’ off, his men followin’ him, mutterin’ dark things . . . just low enough so’s I couldn’t hear none of it.

  Soon as I stabled Pronto and was walkin’ up the boardwalk to the office, George Waller come rushin’ up, all in a sweat. That was the sweatin’est fellow I ever did see.

  “Where are the prisoners, Sheriff?”

  “What prisoners? There ain’t no prisoners—yet,” I added. Then I told him what all had happened.

  “Those damn fools!” he swore. “Out playing soldier boy when they ought to be home, gettin’ in a crop and tending to their business.”

  I agreed.

  George, he cussed some more, and walked around in a little circle on the boardwalk. Then he looked up at me. “I forgot to tell you. There is a United States Marshal waiting to see you in your office, Sheriff.”

  Me and the Marshal shook hands and then got right down to business. He careful inspected the pictures Langsford had took of Al Long and then went over each and ever’ item in Al’s kit once I got it out of the safe. Al’s brothers had been bonded out of the bucket and wasn’t nowhere around, that I could see.

  “Congratulations, Sheriff,” he told me. “You sure bagged you a good one. Where do you want the re-ward money sent?”

  I pondered on that for a time. “Where are you out of, Marshal?”

  “Lander, for the time bein’. Tell you what, I can have the money deposited with Wells Fargo and give you a receipt for it. If you’d like to do it that way. It’d be the safe way.”

  “That sounds good to me.” I signed for the money and then said, “Sit back and pour yourself another cup of coffee, Marshal. I got to bend your ear some.”

  Chapter Three

  I took it from the top, from the shootin’ at the saloon that first night I rode Critter into town, right up to the present moment.

  That Marshal, he poured him yet another cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair. Rusty, Burtell, and De Graff had joined us in the office. There was a nice breeze blowin’ in through the barred and curtainless widows, and it was a pleasant day.

  The Marshal, he sighed and shook his head. “And you want my advice on the best way to handle it, right?”

  “I’d sure appreciate it.”

  “Git the hell outta this valley!”

  I give him my best dubious look.

  “That ain’t exactly what you wanted to hear, right?”

  “That’s it in a nutshell.”

  He sipped at his coffee and tho
ught for a moment. Then he began to smile. “I think I got it!”

  “What?” I leaned forward and listened to him explain his plan. The more he talked, the more antsy I got. When he finally wound down, I said, “Man . . . I got enough badges as it is. A deputy U.S. Marshal—me?”

  “But it’s perfect, Sheriff—don’t you see? Right now, there ain’t nothin’ I can do. I got to ride clear down to Medicine Bow to settle a dispute. By the time I get back, you’ll probably be dead or shot up real bad, and then I can issue federal warrants and me and other Marshals can make a move.” He shook his head. “It’s bad business to kill a U-nited States Marshal. We frown right hard on that.”

  If the thought the last look I give him was strange, this one should have curled his toenails. “Uh . . . now wait a minute, Marshal. You want to give me this badge so’s I can get killed?”

  “Or shot up. Look at it this way, Sheriff: think of the great service you’d be doin’ the good people of this valley.”

  “Well, yeah . . . but what about me?”

  “Well, hell, I never said the plan was perfect, did I?”

  “You shore didn’t! Look here, could I be a U-nited States Marshal and still be sheriff of this county?”

  “Oh, sure. We do that all the time.”

  “What’s it pay?”

  “Not very damn much. But where you make your money is the six cents a mile they give you when you travel. And that’s all the time. Plus, you get to keep all the re-ward money. And that can add up right smart.”

  “Six cents a mile could add up.”

  “Shore does.”

  “You stay put. I got to find George Waller.”

  George, he was leery at first, until I told him that as a U-nited States Marshal, I’d have a whole lot of authority and I would still be around to help out if he’d name Rusty the sheriff after I turned in my badge.

  “Well, that ain’t up to me. If you want Rusty as sheriff, all you got to do is appoint him to your position, and put it in writing. Then he serves out the remainder of your term.”