Blood Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  Fox fainted. After I dumped a bucket of water on him, he said, “For God’s sake, Cotton, kill me and have done with it!”

  “Nope. Belle says she’s in love with you and that’s that. Y’all just start makin’ plans for the weddin’.”

  When I left him, he was cryin’ like a baby. Plumb pitiful.

  We all knew the time would come when the Big Three would be forced to come to town for supplies, and at the end of the third week after Doubtful’s Big Battle, as Pritcher had headlined it in the Informer, I looked up one mornin’ and here they come.

  In a way, it was kind of pathetic. The ladies was in their carriages, all tryin’ to look like royalty, with their noses stuck up high. But it didn’t come off. They had them a passel of gunfighters with them: Little Jack Bagwell, Hank Hawthorne, Jim Reynolds, the Springer Brothers, and the Sanchez clan, includin’ goofy Fergus and his whacky sons, Tyrone and Udell, and the two remaining Long Brothers. And with Rolf and Martha and Jeff, there rode Buck Hargon and Doc Martin and Sangamon.

  And then everybody in the town of Doubtful stepped out onto the boardwalk, armed to the teeth. They didn’t none of them make any threatenin’ gestures, they just stood quiet with their weapons. The Big Three got the message; as silent as it was, it was loudly given.

  I walked over to the store when the parade stopped at Waller’s, and looked at Rolf and A.J. and Matt. “I’ll talk with you men in the Sheriff’s Office. Right now!”

  When they was seated, I gave it to them straight from the shoulder. Big Mike was there, and he was glarin’ hate at me.

  “Get rid of your gunhands. All of them. Rusty is talkin’ to them right now. He’s givin’ them twenty-four hours to draw their time and get clear of the Territory. If you men don’t do what I tell you to do, well, maybe I can’t make them old warrants stick, but I’ll damn sure cause you men a lot of grief.”

  They exchanged glances and Rolf said, “Consider it done, Marshal.”

  “Fine,” says I. “Now then, the war is over. There’s been too many dead, too much blood spilled.” Then I told a big whoppin’ lie. “I’ve contacted the Army at Fort Kearney. If there is any more trouble, they’ll be sendin’ the cavalry in. Do you all understand that?”

  They did.

  “There ain’t but one thing left to do,” Big Mike said, standing up.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “This!” Then he hit me and knocked me plumb out the brand-new door of the jailhouse.

  It took Big Mike about a half a minute to bull his way through the shattered door; he got all tangled up in the splintered wood. But that give me time to get to my feet and splash water on my face from the horse trough. Then to get set for his wild rush at me.

  And he was wild, screamin’ and cussin’ as he jumped off the boardwalk.

  As he jumped he lost his balance and was unsteady for a couple of seconds. That give me time to haul off and bust him right smack on his big Roman nose. It busted and he squalled as the blood squirted. And it also knocked him backwards a few steps. He shook his head and I popped him again, this time on the jaw. Then I got all tangled up in my spurs and went down to the dirt.

  He tried to fall on me, to crush my chest with his knees. I rolled away just in time and kicked out, my boot catching Mike on his side and bringin’ a grunt of pain.

  He tried to grab me in a bear hug, but a knee to his groin backed him up, pain all over his face. I hit him twice, a left and right to the jaw and it stunned him. He backed up, puffin’ and blowin’ and tryin’ to clear his head.

  He’d first hit me a hell of a lick, but anger and time had blowed away the clouds his fist had put in my head. Oh, I knew when the fight was over, win or lose, I’d be a mess of bruises from goin’ through that jailhouse door, but for right now, I was just mad as hell.

  And I had one more thing goin’ for me: I’d been workin’ hard for years and years, never once stoppin’ for no vacation, and my muscle was packed muscle on top of muscle, while Big Mike had been barkin’ out orders from the hurricane deck of the horse. He just wasn’t in the shape that I was.

  I tossed a fake at him and he knew it for what it was and brushed it away, gettin’ set for what he thought would be followin’. But I fooled him again and stepped up and kicked him on the kneecap. He hollered and cussed and grabbed for his knee. That’s when I let him have it. I hit him a combination of punches; to the head, to the belly, to the kidneys, then started all over again.

  There was panic in the big man’s eyes, all mixed up with desperation. He was losin’ a fight and he just couldn’t stand it. With a curse, he grabbed for his gun and had it out before I could push the leather off the hammer of mine.

  “You saddle bum!” he hissed at me, and then eared back the hammer.

  The slug took Big Mike in the head, and blowed out a bunch of yukk as it came out the other side. Mike toppled over on his side and was still, the pistol slippin’ from his hand.

  I turned and looked at my brother standin’ there, his pistol barrel smokin’.

  “Thank you,” says I.

  “Don’t thank me yet.” His eyes was hard and cold. “You don’t have no idea what I come here for.”

  Then he just turned and walked away.

  The killin’ of Big Mike put the damper on anybody else who might have had ideas of causin’ more trouble. A.J., Matt, and Rolf sent their gunhands packin’, just like they promised they’d do. The wires was strung up connectin’ us with the outside world, and we had us a whale of a town party.

  Fox danced ever’ dance with his beloved Belle.

  Jack Crow had disappeared, and no one seemed to know where he’d gone. Personal, I didn’t much care. I just wanted the valley peaceful.

  Me and Pepper, Rusty and Tina, we got all hitched up proper. I knowed Pepper was hurt ’cause her folks didn’t show up, but she didn’t let it ruin nothing.

  For our honeymoon, Pepper chose the spot, and it was some kind of lovely. It was in the high-up country; snuggest little stone cabin you ever did see.

  “Who owns this?” I asked.

  “We do,” she said softly, her fingers busy at the buttons of my shirt. “We’ll talk about property lines later.”

  Like I said, someday I was gonna have to speak to her about being so brazen. Someday.

  Rolf had give it to her for a birthday present, and it was all legal. She’d told me it was just a little spread, and by some standards, it was. Ten thousand acres. But it was prime cattle and horse country.

  After a time up in the cabin, me and Pepper took our time gettin’ back to Doubtful. Everybody who seen us just grinned at us. Made my ears red.

  Pepper, she just laughed and waved at them.

  I turned in my U.S. Marshal’s badge while Pepper spent some time over to Doc Harrison’s place. The ladies was givin’ her some sort of tea, or something like that. I sure was glad I wasn’t invited. Makin’ me drink tea might have been grounds for a divorce.

  George Waller, he stopped by and had some coffee with us. Grinnin’ like a fool, slappin’ me on the back, kiddin’ me about the honeymoon. I took it right well. Wasn’t a whole lot I could say about it.

  I’d run out of tobacco up in the cabin, so I excused myself and started across the street to get something to smoke.

  “Cotton!” the voice stopped me and turned me slow in the street.

  Jack Crow was facin’ me, about forty yards between us. My mouth went all dry, for his hands was all over the butts of his guns.

  “Jack. What’s on your mind?”

  He didn’t believe in beatin’ about no bushes—“Killin’ you!”

  Chapter Ten

  I was conscious of people linin’ the boardwalks; maybe they was talkin’, but I didn’t hear them.

  “Why do you want to do that, Jack?”

  He laughed that cold laugh at me. “’Cause I got the word that people are sayin’ you’re better than me. That hurt me, brother. I make my livin’ at this. This is the only way I know how to
prove them wrong.”

  “You’re crazy, Jack! Plumb loco. We’re brothers!”

  “Don’t make no difference.”

  “You’re lyin’, Jack. Who hired you to gun me?”

  “Nobody, Cotton. And I’m tellin’ you the truth. It’s a business, Cotton. That’s all it is. I’d kill Pa if he was around and got in my way.”

  “Jack. Don’t draw on me. I’m better than you are, Jack.”

  “No way, kid. See you in Hell!”

  He was quick; snake-quick. Like I said, I never wanted the title of gunfighter. But I knowed in all the west, there wasn’t but two or three better than me. And Jack Crow wasn’t one of them. Smoke Jensen, Louis Longmont, and maybe one more.

  I walked slow toward my brother Jack, layin’ on his side in the bloody dirt. He grinned up at me, his mouth all bloody from his chest wound; I must have nicked a lung.

  “Now you’re a gunfighter, Kid. Now you can’t never run away from it. I’ve marked you, Cotton. Like Cain. You’re marked. You won’t never live it down.”

  I squatted down beside him. He was fadin’ quick. “Our brothers and sisters, Jack. Where are they all?”

  “Gone. Scattered all to hell and gone. I never kept up with none of them.”

  “Anything special you want on your marker, Jack?”

  If there was, he never got around to tellin’ me. He jerked once, and then was dead.

  Pepper come to me and touched my arm. “Maybe you can’t ever live it down, Cotton. But we can sure try, can’t we?”

  I smiled at her. “We sure can, honey.”

  Then she kissed me right on the mouth! Right there in front of the whole damned town!

  I’m just gonna have to speak to that woman. Brazen!

  Well, Grandson, that’s the story, all of it. You may be wondering why I go by the name of Cotton in the story and nothing else. Truth is—and I ain’t never told anyone this before, not even your daddy—that I never much cared for my given name. Someone, either my ma or my pa, had themselves a real sense of humor when they named me Throckmorton Thaddeus Wheeler. (For a while, the family referred to me as T.T. but it sounded too much like “titty” and that was even worse than Throckmorton Thaddeus!) Then one day when I was fifteen a feller said to me, “If I was you, I wouldn’t cotton to a name like Throckmorton Thaddeus, neither,” so from then on I called myself Cotton and the name just sorta stuck.

  Anyway, now when you talk about your old granddaddy to your teachers and friends about them olden days in Doubtful, you’ll be speaking the gospel truth. Cause it all happened just the way you read it. I ain’t proud of some of the things I done, but sometimes you got to break some eggs if you’re wantin’ to bake a cake. (Not that I’d ever be caught dead bakin’ a cake, but you know what I mean.)

  I hope, now that you know the truth, you don’t think any less of your granddaddy. I know a lot of it ain’t too pretty, but those were some rough times in Wyoming Territory and we all done what we thought was right. Sometimes you gotta bend the law to keep from breakin’ it.

  Your Grandma Pepper is calling me to supper now so I reckon I’ll put down my ink pen and have me some roast chicken and biscuits. Your grandma and me are looking forward to see you and your folks come Fourth of July. Grandma Pepper plans to bake you one of them peach cobblers you fancy so much—only this time don’t eat it all at one sittin’ like last year and get the runs agin.

  Your loving grandfather,

  Throckmorton Thaddeus “Cotton” Wheeler

  Cheyenne, Wyoming

  Turn the page for an exciting preview of

  PRIDE OF EAGLES

  by William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone

  On sale now, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  PRIDE OF EAGLES by William W. Johnstone

  with J. A. Johnstone

  Pinnacle Books

  ISBN 0-7860-1736-8

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Chapter One

  Distorted by shimmering heat rays, the town of Picacho, Arizona Territory, lay baking in the sun as Falcon rode into town. To the side of one of the houses a woman was washing clothes while two children played on the ground beside her. A dog walked up for a closer examination of Falcon, but it was too hot for him to offer any challenge, so he turned and withdrew to the shade of the building.

  Picacho was built along the Southern Pacific Railroad, the steel ribbons that gave it life. In fact, it was the railroad that brought Falcon to Picacho. He was coming back from his silver mine, located in the Cabibi Mountains, near Oro Blanco. He had bought the mine from Doc Holliday, but his friend neglected to tell him that, in order to make the mine productive, he would have to deal with some hostile Apache Indians.

  He took care of that, and was now on his way back to his home in MacCallister Valley, Colorado. He was in Picacho because it was the nearest place he could catch a train.

  The largest structure in town had a big picture of a golden mug of beer painted on the false front of the building. Alongside the mug of beer, in large red letters, outlined in black, was the name of the saloon: The Brown Dirt Cowboy.

  Dismounting in front of the saloon, Falcon tied his horse off at the hitching rail, then stepped up on the porch to go inside. If anyone happened to be looking in this direction at that point in time, they would have seen a big man, standing a little over six feet tall. His shoulders were wide and muscular and his waist was flat. Pale blue eyes stared out from a chiseled face. He had wheat-colored hair which he wore short and neat. He was wearing a long-sleeved red shirt, a buckskin vest, Levi jeans and tall black boots.

  Falcon had been thinking about a cold beer for the last two days, and he could almost taste it now as he pushed his way through the batwing doors.

  Hanging gourds of evaporating water made the interior of the saloon at least ten degrees cooler than it was outside. It was dark in the saloon, so dark that Falcon had to stand for a moment until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

  He took out a long, thin cheroot and lit it by striking a match on the handle of his Colt .44. He took a few puffs, then, squinting his eyes through the cloud of smoke, surveyed the saloon he had just entered. The bar was made of unfinished, wide-plank boards, with an attached ledge at the bottom to be used as a foot rail. There was no mirror behind the bar, but there was a shelf with an assortment of liquor bottles. A bartender with pomade-slick hair and a waxed moustache was standing behind the bar, with his arms folded across his chest.

  Over the last few years Falcon could almost define his life by places like this: flyblown towns, crude saloons, and green whiskey. Although he could easily afford the high life, Falcon had been wandering around ever since his wife, Marie Gentle Breeze, herself an Indian, had been killed by Indians. Sometimes the cold sweats and killing rages still plagued him but, for the most part, he was able to put that behind him now.

  Falcon stepped up to the bar.

  “What can I do you for?” the bartender asked.

  “Is your beer cold?”

  “Colder than a mountain stream,” he answered.

  “All right, I’ll take a glass,” Falcon said.

  The bartender drew the beer and put it in front of Falcon. “Just passing through, are you?” the bartender asked.

  “Yes,” Falcon replied without elaborating. He picked up the mug and took a long drink before he turned to look around the place. Although it was mid-afternoon, the saloon was nearly full, the customers drawn by the fact that this was the coolest building in town.

  As he stood at the bar, a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man stepped in through the back door. At first Falcon wondered why he had come through the back door, then he saw that a star was barely showing from beneath the vest he was wearing. The sheriff pointed a gun toward one of the tables.

  “I just got a telegram about you, Kofax,” the lawman said. “You should’a had better sense than to come back to a town where ever’one knows you,”

  “Let it be, Calhoun,” Kofax replied. “I a
in’t staying here long. I’m just waitin’ around for the train to take me out of here.”

  The sheriff shook his head. “I don’t think so. You won’t be catchin’ the train today,” he said. “You’re goin’ to jail.”

  Kofax stood up slowly, and stepped away from the table.

  “Well now, you’re planning’ on takin’ me there all by yourself, are you, Calhoun?” Kofax asked.

  The quiet calm of the barroom grew tense, and most of the other patrons in the bar stood up and moved to both sides of the room, giving the sheriff and Kofax a lot of space.

  Only Falcon didn’t move. He stayed by the bar, sipping his beer and watching the drama play out before him.

  “You can make this a lot easier by dropping your gunbelt,” the sheriff said.

  Kofax chuckled, but there was no humor in his laugh. “Well now, you see, there you go. I don’t plan to make it easy for you,” he said.

  “Shuck out of that gunbelt like I told you, slow and easy,” the sheriff ordered.

  Falcon saw something then that the sheriff either didn’t see, or didn’t notice. Kofax’s eyes flicked upward for a split second, then back down toward the sheriff. Kofax smiled, almost confidently, at the sheriff.

  “Sorry, Calhoun, but like I said, I don’t plan to make this easy for you.”

  Curious as to why Kofax wasn’t more nervous, Falcon glanced up and saw a man standing at the top of the stairs. The man was aiming a pistol at the sheriff’s back. That was what Kofax had seen when he cut his eyes upward, and that was what was giving him such supreme confidence.

  “Sheriff, look out!” Falcon shouted.