Blood Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  Man, he went to cussin’. I could hear him as plain as if he was standin’ right next to me. Shovin’ fresh loads into my rifle by feel, not takin’ my eyes off where I now knowed he was, I put another half dozen rounds off that rock wall.

  He tried to return the fire, but the location he now had to fire from was not a very good one; it left him too exposed. I put some rock splinters into his face and that done it for the back-shooter.

  He just couldn’t take no more of it. He made him a run for it and I drilled him, dustin’ him from side to side. He went up on his toes, stayed there for a few seconds and then fell forward on his face. He slowly slid down the hill a few feet and then was still. He was dead, or standin’ so close to it he could feel the chill, for I’d seen my bullet pop dust when it entered and then splat blood as it come out the other side of him.

  Makin’ my way over to him, movin’ slow, stoppin’ often behind cover just in case he had taken him a partner. But he was as alone in death as he had always been in life.

  Not that I was feelin’ sorry for him, for I sure as hell wasn’t.

  It’s all black and white. It’s got to be that way. There are them that want to change that; to make a thug or criminal or whatever you want to call them that are bad something else. And someday they’ll probably get their way, too. Even out there in the West times was changin’. But when the mood of the people changes to where they’re feelin’ sorry for the bad ones, something precious will be lost. Nobody ever locks the doors to their houses; the latch string is always open. That’ll change fast when the laws start favorin’ the criminal.

  I shook off them thoughts, not wantin’ to be around if and when something that dreadful ever occurs.

  I located his rifle; another .44-.40, then found his horse and led him over and picketed him. Goin’ through Haufman’s pockets, I found a wad of money. More than five hundred in gold and paper.

  I debated on what to do with the money, and had made up my mind to try to find some relative of his to send it to; that is, until I found the note in Haufman’s purse.

  As we talked of, Sheriff Cotton Pickens must be eliminated.

  It was signed R.

  Well, I just sat there and give out a sigh. For that pretty well blew the candles out on the cake, right there and then. R couldn’t stand for nobody else other than Mister Rolf hisself. That, and the way the note was worded all fancy-like. And there was something else: I’d seen Baker’s handwritin’ several times before at his place. That kinda tied it all up with an ugly-colored bow. Right final.

  So I stuck the money in my pocket. Right nice amount of cash to tote around. Made a body feel important. When I got back to town, I’d just, by God, buy the fanciest watch ol’ George had in his store—compliments of Rolf Baker.

  But first, I had me a job of work to do.

  Gettin’ the bedroll from behind the saddle of Haufman’s horse, I rolled him up in the tarp and tied him snug. He was a load puttin’ acrost the saddle—dead weight, you might say. But I tied him down good on that sudden skittish horse and walked down the hill to the timber where I’d left Pronto. Pronto didn’t like the smell of that dead man either.

  “Settle down, Pronto. I can testify that he didn’t smell no better when he was alive.”

  Pronto tried to bite me, but I got out of the way in time.

  It was kinda eerie that night, campin’ with a dead man all rolled up. And that presented yet another problem: I didn’t want him to stiffen out straight. Hell, I’d never get him bent over the saddle again. So before turnin’ in, I horseshoed Haufman and staked him in that position, so when I waked up and he was stiff, he’d fit proper over the saddle.

  I ain’t totally ignorant.

  I hit Quartermoon range just about noon the next day, and when a puncher seen me and that wrapped-up body, he lit out for the big house.

  Me? Hell, I just rode right up onto the front yard as big as pie. Rolf and Jeff was waitin’ on the porch, both of them wearin’ short guns. No sign of Pepper or her ma. The hotsy-totsy former Cindy Meeker from Frisco, turned New England swell.

  “I told you that you were not welcome at this ranch, Pickens,” Rolf said. “Now what is the meaning of this intrusion?”

  “I brung your man back to you, Baker.”

  “I don’t have the foggiest idea what in the world you are babbling about this time, Marshal. Get that disgusting burden off of my lawn.”

  I had gone over in my head a few lies I was gonna tell if it come to it—just to see what kind of reaction I’d get out of the Brewery Kid.

  I jerked my thumb toward the horseshoed Haufman. “Haufman.” Rolf paled and took a quick intake of breath, his eyes narrowin’ down.

  “Really? You don’t say.” He could recover quick. “Well, men who live by the gun usually die by the gun, don’t they, Marshal?”

  I sat my horse, just starin’ at him. I had to admire the man’s actin’ ability. He’d sure missed his callin’ by not goin’ on the stage.

  “Well, Marshal . . . why in the world would you think Haufman worked for me?”

  I smiled at him. OK, if that’s how he wanted to play it. “Well, Baker, you see, I found a note in Haufman’s pocket. And he talked some ’fore he passed on to his Maker. I wrote it all down and left it and the note with the sheriff a couple of counties over. Insurance, you might say. Then I wired the U-nited States Marshal’s office and told him what I’d done . . . without mentionin’ no names, of course.”

  Rolf, he had to steady hisself agin’ the porch railin’. Man looked like he was about to have him a stroke or two.

  I could see that Jeff’s hands were shaking. He wasn’t in real good shape either. And I wondered how much about his ma and pa’s background the young man knowed. If I had to guess, I’d say plenty.

  “What . . . uh, what . . . uh, do you? . . .” Rolf stuttered. He cleared his throat. “What is your next move, Marshal?”

  “A lot of that depends on you, Baker. If you get my drift and all.”

  “I . . . uh, certainly get part of it, Marshal.” He cut his eyes to the house and I knew that somebody was in ear range of our words, and he didn’t want them to hear none of it.

  “I’ll be usin’ the sheriff’s office in Doubtful ’til I can get my own proper office that’s fittin’ a U-nited States Marshal like me. Now, I’ll be ridin’ out to see Miss Pepper, since we have some business of the heart to attend to. I’d take it unkindly if you was to try to stop that. I might take it so unkindly that I’d do something for pure hatefulness. Like sendin’ some telegraph wires to folks back east. New York City would be one of the places.”

  Rolf slowly nodded his head. And right there and then, I seen a man age before my very own eyes. He knew that I’d done sent all them wires, and that I was holdin’ the hole cards. All of them aces, too. And he wasn’t holdin’ nothin’. My hand was pat, his was busted. Rolf, he had been, up to that moment, a right nice-lookin’ man . . . handsome, even, I suppose. But now? Hell, he looked like a wore-out tramp on the dole. The flesh on his face seemed to sag with age. Jeff had sat down in a porch chair, his hat off, his face in his hands. The little shit knowed it all. And he agreed to be a part of it. Damn his black heart to hell!

  Rolf had lowered his head. He lifted his eyes to mine. His eyes were lifeless. “Well, Marshal.” His voice was awful shaky. “I think that . . . no, I’m sure that . . . well, we can work our way of this terrible morass . . . this situation,” he hastened to explain, and I’m glad he did, ’cause I sure didn’t have no idea what more-ass meant. Well . . . I knowed what it sounded like. “Yes, I certainly believe we can.”

  “That sounds good to me. I like a sweet pie.”

  Some of the life came back into Rolf’s eyes. Jeff’s head come up and he stared at me. They both bit at it and took it, swallerin’ the bait and the hook. I always had liked that sayin’ about if you was to give a fellow enough rope, he’d hang himself.

  Stepping out of the saddle, I cut Haufman loose. The body hit
the ground with a dull smack.

  Inside the house, I heard a woman give out with a little gasp. That had to be Pepper. Cindy Meeker had seen more dead bodies than me. Workin’ the Barbary Coast like she’d done, she’d helped murder and steal and shanghai men out to sea many, many times during her short but colorful career . . . most of it spent on her back.

  And with Pepper there, and able to hear all the words, I didn’t want to drag her into none of this slimy mess. I’d tell her I was settin’ up her pa, the next time I see her. “I’m tired of totin’ him around, Baker. You plant him.”

  “Oh, but of course, Marshal! Son,” he said, with a sly smile. “I guess I’d better get used to callin’ you son, hadn’t I?”

  “Yeah,” I said wearily, suddenly tired of the whole stinkin’ mess. “I reckon you had, at that . . . pa.” Goddamn, that last word made my mouth ache to say it.

  Rolf, he grinned like an egg-suckin’ dog and Jeff grinned right along with him.

  “Welcome to the family, Cotton!” Jeff blurted out. “Damn, but it’s good to have you back home. Ain’t it, Father. I mean, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Don’t overdo it, son. Time for celebrating will come later. After,” he looked at me, “Cotton and I have a little chat. Right . . . son?”

  “Right.” I just couldn’t call him pa. I just flat could not do it.

  “I’ll get some hands to help with the body, Father.” Jeff left us.

  “I’ll personally see that he gets a good Christian burial, Cotton. That would be the Christian thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

  I swung back into the saddle. This rotten son of a bitch wouldn’t know a Christian act if Jesus was to come up and shake his hand. “I want you to be sure to give him a . . . good Christian burial.”

  I rode out, deliberately putting my back to Rolf. But I’m gonna tell you what, the center of my back was some kind of itchy until I got out of rifle range.

  Chapter Five

  Back in town, I called the boys in and swore them all to silence. Then I told them all that I’d learned about the Big Three.

  The three of them, they just sat real still for a long moment, looks of shock and disbelief on their faces. Finally, De Graff stood up and began pacin’ around the room.

  “It begins to figure, now that you’ve dug up the bones, Marshal. A.J. and Matt, they got greedy. And Rolf, he knew that too much attention might bring them all down, like a house built of cards. Then you come along and got yourself the sheriff’s job. Rolf seen a way out and pushed you and Pepper towards each other, not knowin’ that you two would really get sweet on each other. Then, when you took the Marshal’s job, he seen it might all come apart, or he thought it would, and he jumped the gun, sendin’ Haufman out to kill you. That about tie it all up?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Now what, Marshal?” Rusty asked. “Are we gonna go after the Big Three and try to nail them on the New York City charges?”

  I’d been givin’ that some serious thought. On some charges, so I’d read up on, there was a time period; after that, the charges wasn’t so good. Wouldn’t stick in a court of law. On the murder charges against them? Well, all that happened more than twenty-five years ago, and two thousand miles away. And really, all any of them had to do was to claim they was born in some rural area back east, and their parents was dead. Meanin’ that there wasn’t no real way to prove Mills and Lawrence and Baker was guilty of anything.

  I put all that into words and let the boys ruminate on it.

  Burtell finally said, “Personal, I think it would be a waste of time, you ask me. I don’t think nothin’ could ever be proved agin’ any of them. People change in twenty-five years; lots of witnesses, if there ever was any, would be dead. Others would be moved away and gone. All right, so them three ain’t nothin’ but blackhearted scoundrels, not fit for no human bein’ to associate with . . . but you might be able to strike some sort of deal with them.” He looked at me.

  “Yeah. A way to end the valley war.”

  “Right,” Rusty agreed. “If the Big Three would agree to pull back to their legal range lines, and let the nesters and smaller spreads alone, we just kinda put those old charges on the shelf and let them gather dust. It’d be worth a try, you ask me.”

  “If it ain’t too late,” De Graff’s remark was sour-given.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You’re all forgettin’ Colonel Dolittle and his Irregulars. You can’t tell nobody about the charges, and the odds of them believin’ Mills and Lawrence is gonna be good boys from now on is slim to none.”

  He was right. That was something to think on.

  I stood up. “Well, I’ll just go over and have a talk with Dolittle. Sound him out on it.”

  “No!” Dolittle thundered. “Absolutely not. No way would I ever believe anything from the mouths of Mills or Lawrence.”

  “You wouldn’t even give it a try, Preacher?”

  “No! I have spoken with God, and God has ordered me to wage a Christian war against the evil that prevails in this valley.”

  I stared at him. “God . . . spoke to you, Preacher? He told you that?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  The preacher’s jaw was still a little poked-out from when I’d popped him. All right, I’d tried a reasonable way, now I’d try something else. “Preacher, I’m a U-nited States Marshal, and I am orderin’ you to disband this here army of yours. If you refuse, I will call in other Marshals and have warrants swore out agin you and ever’ man in your Irregulars.”

  He swelled up and puffed out his chest. “You wouldn’t dare do that to me. You don’t have the authority to do anything like that!”

  “You better not try me, Preacher. I’m gonna bring peace to this valley . . . one way or the other. Now, I’ve showed you a peaceful way. I suggest you take it.”

  “The Lord does not respond well to threats, young man.”

  “That’s sure true, Preacher. But I ain’t talkin’ to the Lord; I’m jawin’ with you. And you’re a mortal man, just like me.” But I had me a feelin’ that the preacher had got hisself and the Lord all mixed up together.

  Dolittle got to walkin’ around his little office and wavin’ his arms and shoutin’. “I’ll pray for your lost soul, Marshal Pickens. For it is indeed obvious to me that you have shifted your allegiance from the path of the righteousness to the dark ways of sin and sinners.”

  Right then and there, I knowed what Preacher Dolittle really was: a big windbag. But there’s one thing about windbags that the preacher didn’t seem to realize. When he led his army of irregulars agin’ a hundred or more gunfighters, he’d discover, probably too late, that a .44 slug can punch a mighty big hole in a windbag.

  I stood up and stared at him. “I done all that a man could do, Preacher. But I’ll add this: you’re fixin’ to get a lot of pretty good men killed in this valley if you don’t back off this stupid plan of yours and break up this so-called army.”

  “Nonsense! I shall lead my Christian army into the valley of death, and we shall emerge victorious, waving the banner of Christ.”

  More than likely, what they was gonna do was come out with their tails tucked between their legs . . . them that come out at all, that is.

  But I didn’t say no more. There just wasn’t no point to it.

  I walked out of the preacher’s office and went straight to George Waller’s store.

  “Yes, Marshal?”

  “Gimme that watch right there.” I pointed to the fanciest watch in his showcase. “And wind it up and set it proper for me.”

  “Certainly. And how about a nice fob for it, too?”

  “Yeah. That’ll be right nice. And I want two hundred rounds of .44s while you’re rootin’ around back there.”

  He blinked. “Two hundred rounds?”

  “Yeah. All hell is fixin’ to bust loose in the valley, George. So you just best get ready for it.”

  With the watch tucked secure by a chain into m
y vest pocket, I walked over to Doc Harrison’s office and caught him in and not busy. “Doc, how are you fixed for medical supplies?”

  “Why . . . very well, thank you. I just this week received a shipment. What a strange question, Marshal. Why do you ask?”

  “ ’Cause you fixin’ to get real busy, Doc. Your wife’s a nurse, ain’t she?”

  “Why, yes, she is. And a very good one, I might add.”

  “Anybody else in this town know anything about doctorin’?”

  “Ah . . . there are a couple of good ladies who have some nursin’ experience.”

  “You gonna be needin’ ’em, Doc. You got a good supply of leeches?”

  He smiled. “The medical profession stopped using them some years back, Marshal.”

  “Just checkin’.”

  I left him starin’ at my back, a funny look on his face.

  The next mornin’, as I was saddlin’ up, I noticed a whole bunch of horses in the corral, with brands that I didn’t recognize. I asked the stable boy about them.

  “They rode in last night, Marshal. Them six horses there,” he pointed, “belongs to some men that look Mexican. Or at least half of them does. I don’t know what them others does look like. They’re kinda, well, funny-lookin’.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Lobo, Pedro, Salvador, Fergus, and his goofy-actin’ sons, Tyrone and Udell.

  “Where are they?”

  “Over to the hotel. It’s plumb jammed up full, so I heard.”

  “Boy, when the shootin’ starts, and it might pop at any time, you hunt you a hole and get in it, you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Me and Pronto, we set out for the Quartermoon. Pepper was out for a ride and she galloped up to me, leanin’ over and givin’ me a wet smack right on the lips. I was gonna have to admonish her for bein’ so brazen, I reckon.

  She sat her sidesaddle and grinned at me. “Your ears are all red, Cotton.”

  “Are not!”

  She laughed and we rode on. My ears did feel like they was burnin’ some. But damned if I was gonna admit it.